A Star Is Born Chapter 16 (Patreon)

Chapter 16

“You’re sweating, Harry, and practice ended almost two hours ago.” Wood commented non-chalantly as they walked towards the front door of the manor. The evening air was cool, but Harry could still feel the lingering heat of the day and the physical exertion of practice, but more relevantly the heat of his temper. 

“It’s just been a lot the last few days.” Harry admitted reluctantly, straightening his robes in a futile attempt to look more presentable for their arrival. He wiped his damp forehead with the palm of his hand, his eyes fixed on the imposing oak doors ahead. “Between Jackman, and half the team hating my guts, it’s hard to feel this is going to go swimmingly.” The tension in the locker room had left him feeling more like an intruder than a teammate.

Scoffing, Oliver shook his head. “Pucey is a git. He always has been, but he’s a damn good player.” Saying nothing further for a moment, the two arrived at the entrance and waited a long moment, his hesitation preventing him from knocking. The silence of the manor grounds seemed to amplify Harry’s internal anxiety. Wood added, “You know Conner and Jason have your back. The beaters think you are a great time, so you have won them over. Garrett I think is too invested in being in Charlotte’s knickers to voice his opinion on you one way or the other, because she is quite the fan of yours. She’s a Muggleborn if you didn’t know.”

“I didn’t.” Harry admitted, a small smile playing on his lips as he considered his interactions with the woman. “But she has been kind to me since my first day. It makes sense.”

Oliver nodded, his expression softening slightly before he stepped forward to knock several times on the heavy oak door, the sound echoing through the quiet evening air to indicate their arrival. Neither of them said another word, the weight of the upcoming dinner settling between them, until the door creaked open. A House Elf stood there, peering up at them with large, luminous eyes. “Goods evening sirs,” the elf squeaked with a polite bow. “Masters be awaitings you in the dining room. This way, please.”

The elf was the typical size of his kind, a male with bat-like ears, much like Dobby’s had been, but instead of hanging low, they stood straight up. This elf also did not look starved or mistreated; his skin was healthy, and instead of the filthy, discarded rags Harry was used to seeing on enslaved elves, this one wore a clean, miniature grey cloak.

Harry found himself unable to move, his boots feeling as though they were rooted to the stone threshold. He had not had many or any direct interactions with house elves since the murder of Dobby at Malfoy Manor, and the sight of one so well-cared for sent a pang of grief and surprise through his chest. He remained frozen in the doorway, his eyes locked on the creature as his mind momentarily flooded with memories of large, soulful eyes and a final, selfless act of bravery.

“Harry?” Oliver asked carefully, seeing his anguished look.

The young man said nothing, and just stared at the house elf who turned and asked questioningly, “Sirs?”

“Sorry one second, Pipsy.” Oliver said, holding up a single finger toward the house-elf before he turned his full attention back to his teammate, his brow furrowed with growing alarm. “Harry? Are you still with me?”

Memories flashed through Harry’s mind with a violent, jarring clarity. They were fighting at Malfoy Manor, the air thick with the copper scent of blood and the ozone of misfired curses. They were winning somehow, fueled by a desperate, jagged hope. Despite having been locked in the damp darkness of the basement, Hermione’s harrowing screams from the floor above had surged them on, pushing them past exhaustion. They were going to fight until their very last breath, even if that meant dying to take Bellatrix Lestrange down with them.

Suddenly, they had the advantage. Dobby was there, a small, brave blur of motion ready to get them out, but Bellatrix had a knife and it was arching through the air toward them. Harry knew he should cast a shield. He should protect them all, as he always tried to do, but his limbs felt like lead, and he couldn’t get his wand to react in time. The realization hit him with a sickening force: someone was going to die.

A firm hand on the teen’s shoulder snapped him out of the waking nightmare. Harry blinked rapidly, the opulent front entry of the manor slowly replacing the grim walls of Malfoy Manor. He turned to Oliver with a blank, hollow look. “What?”

The memory of that final, selfless act was still echoing around his entire world, making the present feel fragile and thin. The concerned look of his captain and longtime friend briefly anchored him back to reality, pulling him away from the ghost of Dobby’s large, soulful eyes.

“Merlin, Harry.” Oliver said, his voice dropping an octave in genuine worry. “Where were you just then? You looked like you’d seen a ghost.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Harry said quickly, his voice tight as he forced the grief back into a small, dark corner of his mind. He couldn't afford to fall apart now, not with the weight of his new career and the expectations of being the star Seeker Puddlemere needed resting on him. “Let’s do this.”

Oliver looked like he might call the whole thing off, his protective instincts as a captain clashing with the necessity of the dinner. Instead, he shook his head and exhaled a long breath. “We are going to talk about this later, alright?”

Harry just nodded, but said nothing further, his eyes fixed on the house-elf that was waiting patiently to lead them into the household. As they followed the small creature and made their way down elegant hallways of nicely designed corridors, Harry couldn’t help but speak to the elf, his voice low as the weight of his recent flashbacks still felt heavy on his chest. “My friend, Oliver, said your name was Pipsy?”

“That’s right, Mr. Harry Potter, sir.” The elf said, glancing over his shoulder. He held his hands close together, his fingers twisting in the fine grey fabric of his cloak, looking almost nervous to be addressed so directly by the young wizard.

“Thank you Pipsy, for showing us the way.” Harry offered, desperately trying to generate a conversation with the small creature to anchor himself in the present. The sight of an elf so well-cared for was a jarring, welcome contrast to the memories of Malfoy Manor that had just threatened to consume him.

“Yousa welcome sir,” the small house-elf said softly, his bat-like ears twitching as he snapped his fingers. With a sharp, magical click, a heavy set of double doors at the end of the hallway swung open, revealing the warm, golden light of the dining room.

Oliver clapped Harry on the shoulder with a firm grip meant to be reassuring, pulling him back from his internal grief. “See? Nothing to worry about,” he whispered, before leading the way forward and calling a thank you over his shoulder to Pipsy.

Harry followed slowly behind, but before he could cross the threshold, a small, cool hand caught one of his fingers, stopping him in his tracks. He looked down to see Pipsy staring up at him with large, luminous eyes that held a profound depth of respect. “Yousa's story, Harry Potter sir, is one well known among the house-elves,” the elf whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. “Rest easys, sir. Dobby is well remembered, and he is honored in the songs we sing of the Free Elf.”

Harry felt his heart in his throat, and tears pricked at his eyes as he squeezed the little finger that grabbed his own. The weight of Pipsy’s words—the knowledge that Dobby was not only remembered but honored by his own kind—provided a sense of closure he hadn’t realized he needed. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

The elf just nodded, saying nothing further, but trotted down the hallway, the soft patter of his feet fading against the stone floor receding by the second. A final call of his name from Oliver gave Harry the necessary jolt to wipe his eyes and square his shoulders. He forced a steadying breath into his lungs, trying to bury the ghosts of Malfoy Manor once more, and turned toward the dining room. Entering the room, he was greeted by the warm glow of the setting sun that covered the vision of the prepared feast.

Upon Harry's arrival, two men rose from their seats at the vast, empty table. One was Coach Deverell, the formidable figure of intensity who had drafted Harry and supported him through his initial professional press conference in January all the way to today’s practice. Standing next to him was a man with a notably gentler and more compassionate expression; despite the difference in temperament, their striking physical similarity led Harry to believe they were brothers.

Coach Deverell was the first to address the two, his keen eyes scanning Harry’s somewhat disheveled appearance. “Potter, Wood, running a little behind are we?”

“Sorry, Coach,” Oliver defended quickly, stepping into his role as captain. “We had a few bumps on our trip here—nothing we couldn’t handle—but all is good now. Right, Harry?”

“Right,” Harry answered immediately, pulling himself fully into the present. He stepped forward, extending his hand to the man he didn’t recognize, determined to make a professional impression despite the emotional upheaval of the last few minutes. “Harry Potter, sir. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

The man took his hand in a firm grip. “Daniel Deverell, owner of Puddlemere United,” he introduced himself, his voice carrying a resonance that demanded respect. “This meeting is long overdue, Mr. Potter. You have my sincere apology for waiting so long to schedule a proper welcome after the substantial trade we made to secure your talent. Please, gentlemen, sit. We have much to discuss regarding the upcoming season and our future as an organization.”

The rhythmic click of the door handle pierced the heavy silence as the group settled around the expansive table. Pipsy moved with practiced, silent efficiency, magically balancing silver platters laden with an array of hors d’oeuvres. Despite the inviting scent of scallops and pastries filling the air, the Deverell men remained unmoved, their focus entirely fixed on the young Seeker. Oliver, too, ignored the food, seemingly holding his breath as he waited for the owner’s first true evaluation of his star acquisition.

Leaning back in his high-backed chair, Daniel Deverell tracked Harry’s every movement with sharp, calculating eyes. For a long moment, the owner’s expression remained an unreadable mask of professional scrutiny, making Harry feel as though he were under a microscope. Finally, a slow grin spread across Daniel’s face, though it was the Coach who broke the tension first. “Relax, son,” he said. “We are all friends here.”

“Phil is right,” Daniel agreed, shifting his tone toward business. “Now, Potter, I’m a great admirer of your accomplishments outside the world of Quidditch,” he began, his voice dropping into a resonant rumble that commanded the room’s undivided attention. “But I’ll be blunt—I didn’t agree to trade away this franchise’s future simply because you defeated He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.”

The owner paused, letting the weight of his statement hang over the table. He pointedly ignored Oliver’s stiffening posture and the uncomfortable shift from Coach Deverell. “To be frank, our board of investors were more than skeptical,” Daniel continued. “In their view, you are a celebrated war hero, not necessarily a Quidditch superstar. However, Oliver was insistent that you have the talent to be both, and there is no one in this organization whose judgment I trust more than the man we chose to captain this team.”

Harry allowed a moment of silence to pass before speaking up in his own defense. “I’ve made two catches in two games, sir,” he pointed out. “While I know we haven’t faced the league’s most difficult competition yet, the addition of Ms. Chang as our backup Seeker has significantly strengthened our roster.”

Daniel Deverell pressed his ten fingers together in an interview-like posture, before saying, “You’re off to a good start, but this is only the beginning. We are going to need a professional who can handle the pressure of a hundred thousand fans screaming for blood when the Snitch is a blur in the distance. We gave up two first-round draft picks, our veteran seeker, and a potential all-star chaser to get you here. I don't care about your legend, Harry. I care about your flight path and your reflexes. Can you justify the price we paid, or did we buy a very expensive mascot for the Puddler Jumper?”

Harry took a steadying breath, feeling quite insulted by the man at this point, but tried not to show it as his gaze met Daniel Deverell's unyielding stare. "I understand the skepticism from anyone that had never seen me play before," he continued, his voice gaining a firmer edge. "But I didn't accept this position to be a mascot. I spent months training from sun up to sun down to ensure my skills were up to professional standards before I even stepped foot at the combine." He gestured toward Oliver Wood. "Captain Wood can attest to the work I've put in. I'm not just relying on reflexes from my school days; I've adapted my skills in the air to the speed and aggression of the professional league."

"As for the pressure," Harry added, a flicker of his past intensity crossing his face, "A stadium full of people screaming for a Snitch is a welcome change from what I dealt with before the war ended." He leaned forward slightly, his posture mirroring the owner's seriousness. "I intend to justify every draft pick and every galleon spent on my trade. My focus is on winning the league, and I think our current trajectory proves that the investment is going to be sound. If not this year, then very soon.”

No one moved for a long moment, both Oliver and their Coach were looking at the older of the two Deverell men with anxious looks to how Daniel might respond, but the man who had been holding a perfectly stoic face before now, allowed a Cheshire grin to cross his countenance, “Good. That is all I needed to know. Now what I need to know is, what can I do for you, Mr. Potter, to ensure you have everything you need to win?”

The question hung in the air, and Harry blinked several times at the question. The teen should’ve expected a test, but after his run in with the friendly little elf for the Deverell family he had felt a little off his game.  He recognized now that Daniel Deverell was shifting the power dynamic in the room as quickly as a Snitch changed direction. Harry felt the tension in his shoulders dissipate, replaced by a creeping surge of relief. He glanced at Oliver, who looked as though he had just finished a grueling workout. The owner wasn't testing his mettle anymore; he was offering the full weight of Puddlemere United behind him.

“I appreciate the offer, Mr. Deverell,” Harry began, his voice steady, though he felt the weight of the room’s expectations pressing in on him. “To be honest, everything about being drafted to Puddlemere has been more than any dream I could’ve come up with. The training facilities have been exceptional. All my experiences with the coaching and staff have been amazing. I think we have everything we need to win.”

“I am sensing a but.” Daniel said after Harry’s pause, his eyes narrowing slightly as he leaned forward.  While Coach Deverell said with a smirk, “Our father used to tell us that everything before the ‘but’ is bullshit.”

“We just need time, sir.” Harry promised, meeting the owner’s gaze with a flicker of his old, battle-hardened resolve. “The team is divided. I think there are a few that don’t think I belong on the team, much less as a starter. Now Jackman has lost his job, and he had friends on the team. We need our moment—something to unite us beyond just a paycheck or a practice schedule.”

“Jackman started the disunity on this team.” Coach Deverell said, his voice grating like gravel. “The assistant coaches were giving me reports about it every day last week. He was poisoning the well before you even stepped onto the pitch.”

“I warned him what would happen if he didn’t straighten up.” Oliver insisted, his frustration evident in the way he gripped the armrests of his chair. “He thought he was untouchable because of his tenure.”

“Pucey isn't much better.” Harry grumbled, “But at least he is a good player.”

“Adrian Pucey?” Daniel asked gravely.

“We didn’t run in the same circles, sir.” Harry said honestly, “We were rivals in school, and well to be honest, I could have killed some of his friends in the Battle of Hogwarts, I am not sure that is going to wash away quickly.”

“I easily could’ve done the same,” Oliver admitted, his voice dropping to a somber level that matched the gloom of the conversation. “That night was a blur. You don’t think about who’s on the other side of the spell; you just think about who’s standing next to you.”

A cold shiver raced up Harry’s spine, a phantom wind that smelled of ozone and ancient stone dust. The dining room flickered like a memory, replaced for a heartbeat by the crumbling battlements of their old school. He remembered the exact moment Oliver had entered the fray, not as the disciplined captain he knew now, but as a warrior and friend that arrived on the brink of desperation. The image was seared into Harry’s mind: Oliver, dirt-streaked and fierce, soaring over the battlements straight from the Hogwarts pitch with many of his old friends from his first Quidditch team. “COME ON!”

The memory of that battle cry echoed in Harry’s ears, vibrating against his skull until the soft, gravelly voice of his coach pulled him back to the present. “There could be even more to it than that.” Daniel said softly, his eyes searching Harry’s face for the ghosts he knew could be lingering there.

Phil Deverell leaned forward, his shadow stretching long across the table. “Are you sure you want to go there, Daniel? That’s confidential information.” Coach Deverell grumbled softly.

“They have a right to know.” Daniel defended, before clearing his voice, and calling for Pipsy, his Elf. When the little creature appeared Mr. Deverell asked to see ‘the letters’, and the small creature disappeared for a brief moment, before reappearing in an instant with a trash bag full of letters. With a snap of the elves fingers several letters began floating out and toward the waiting hands of Harry and Oliver.

In suspicion, Harry grasped at a letter, before opening it to read its contents:

Adrian Pucey,

You wear Puddlemere colors, but some of us still see green and silver.

Every match. Every autograph. Every smile.

We'll be there to remind you what you were.

Then another:

“You aren't worthy to play with our savior! 

You would've seen all of us dead,

 and that's exactly what you should be. 

SYMPATHIZER! DEATH EATER!”

Harry's eyes widened, as he sat the letter down, and went for another:

Pucey,

We know your face.

You may fool Potter, but the rest of us haven't forgotten.

Watch the stands. There are more eyes on you than you think.

And another:

Pucey,

Funny thing about the war—

Some people got trials.

Others just got lucky.

Luck runs out.

— A Friend of the Fallen

Soon Harry was just turning through the letters, feeling his heart dropping into his stomach.

“You can't run from your past, Pucey! 

All your kind should've been rounded up and executed. 

A Death Eater doesn't belong in Professional Quidditch, much less Puddlemere.

Don't show your face in the Puddle Jumper if you know what's good for you!”

The weight of the hateful words hung heavy in the air, the ink seemingly vibrating with the vitriol of the anonymous senders.

“How many are there?” Harry asked quietly.

“Hundreds.” Daniel Deverell replied, “We have relocated Mr. Pucey, and intercepted all the letters that were sent to his flat.  There could even be more, but this is what we have found.”

“Do Rex and the rest of the security staff know?” Harry asked, now concerned for his teammate.

“You may have noticed the staff has been pulling long hours?” Coach Deverell asked, “That’s because half of them are rotating out of Mr. Pucey’s residence for the time being. We are sparing no expense to keep him protected.”

Taking a deep breath, Harry said nothing for a minute. He now realized the immense amount of pressure that Pucey must be under.  He knew what that was like.  Harry knew what getting letters like this did to your psyche over time.

“Is there anything I can do?” Harry asked.

Daniel nodded his head, “I am glad you asked.”

“Win games.” Coach Deverell said with his hands lifting in a shrug like motion, “Make the fan base and the rest of the world forgive and forget by your success. There isn’t much else that’s going to change the mind of people who have been hurt by Death Eaters and the sympathizers.”

“Before I defend the guy…” Harry said, breaking off in a long pause, “We are certain he wasn’t a Death Eater right? I never fought against him to my knowledge, or saw him in the robes, but just so we are all on the same page that is something I need to know for certain.”

Oliver nodded in agreement, “Those bastards killed a lot of our friends. I wouldn’t be comfortable defending a Death Eater to the public. Even if he was the greatest Quidditch player alive.”

“To my knowledge and the knowledge of the training staff, Adrian Pucey was not a Death Eater, just a Pureblood Sympathizer.” Coach Deverell offered placatingly.

“I think the point is, Harry,” Daniel began, his tone shifting to one of strategic pragmatism, “Pucey is a problem we can’t fix overnight.  Perhaps one day, but not right away, and we all know Jackman wasn’t your fault. He chose to not grow with the team and rest on his laurels, expecting the game to wait for him. The signing of Cho Chang as a reserve Seeker shows the league that we are betting on younger talent to lead the way—which could mean a complete overhaul of the old guard, so if it does turn out that Pucey was a Death Eater…then we can be amendable to more changes.”

Daniel paused, letting the vision of a modernized Puddlemere sink in. “We would prefer unity however, and we aren’t just looking for a Seeker; we are looking for a culture shift. If the team is divided, it’s because they’re clinging to a past that hasn’t won a championship in over a decade. You and Wood are the future of this franchise. If you need a moment to unite them, find it on the pitch, but know that the front office isn't looking back. I like the Chang signing, but you can bet we will be open to trade anyone that isn’t going to get on board with our future.”

“That means a lot, sir.” Harry said honestly, feeling the weight of the owner's support. “I just want to win.”

“That’s what everyone at this table wants.” Oliver said simply, his gaze shifting between the star seeker and the man who signed the checks.

“Wood is right.” Coach Deverell added, his voice grating like gravel against the quiet of the dining room. “We are in a long drought of Championships. The Bats, The Magpies, and the Arrows, have won it almost every year for the last decade. We want to change that, and we are prepared to do whatever it takes. Whether it's changing the roster or changing the mindset, the Puddlemere of old is dead. We are building a juggernaut, Potter, and you are the tip of the spear. Teams can win games without a good Seeker, but rarely a championship.”

“I don’t want to cost anyone their spots on the team.” Harry said softly, “Let’s give the rest of them some time.  Acclimate together, win together, and maybe the rest will fix itself. If not, then I suspect our next conversation will be unpleasant.”

“Then for now, let’s talk about the Magpies.” Daniel said, clapping his hands together, “The future of the franchise is important, but we should focus on what we will be facing this weekend. Cormack MaCloud is one of the best in the league, if he was British born, he would be on the National team. Instead he plays for the Irish. As far as raw talent for a Seeker goes, he is one of the best you will face since Lynch moved to play on the continent.”

The group settled into animated discussion about the last two matches, dissecting specific plays and maneuvers, and the high-stakes match coming very soon. As the initial professional tension ebbed away, replaced by a shared passion for the sport, the group began delving into the array of prepared food, and even shared a bottle of fine wine between them all. In the end, Harry felt surprisingly relaxed, finding common ground in talking Quidditch with three men who had revolved their lives around the game just as he had begun to do in his new professional career.

They discussed the grueling upcoming schedule and the necessity of longer training practices to integrate the new roster changes. Daniel even took a moment to thank Harry personally for taking it upon himself to support the local businesses in Puddlemere surrounding the stadium, noting how much it helped the team's image in the community. All in all, it was a pleasant and productive evening that Harry felt solidified his place within the organization. 

However, as they said their goodnights and parted ways, Harry’s brain began to fill with heavy thoughts regarding the hundreds of hateful letters Pucey had been shouldering quietly on his own. He only hoped that things would eventually get better for the man. They may have been political opposites with a complicated history from their school days, but Harry wouldn’t wish such vitriolic death threats upon anyone—especially someone who, to the best of everyone's knowledge, had never actually donned the black robes and silver mask of a Death Eater. They were a team after all, and sooner or later, they would have to start acting like it.