A Star Is Born Chapter 18 (Patreon)

Chapter 18

The evening had fully descended upon Montrose. The sounds of thousands of fans arriving at the stadium echoed around the sterile, unfamiliar locker room assigned to Puddlemere United. The noise sent butterflies through Harry’s stomach as the chants began bleeding through the walls:

Black and White, fly or die!Watch the Magpies take the sky!Puddlemere can wear the blue,But thirty-two titles say we smash you!

No one in the locker room spoke. The tension was a heavy, suffocating weight that seemed to press against the walls. Each player on the team sat dressed and ready in their deep navy robes, but none spoke, the usual pre-game banter replaced by a grim, collective focus. Harry stared at his folded hands, his knuckles white from gripping his own fingers. His foot tapped nervously against the cold concrete beneath his feet.

Ron had told him the night before that MaCloud had defeated nearly every great Seeker of his generation, building a legacy that now felt almost impossible to overcome. The Magpies had won more titles than any team in the league, and over the past decade, MaCloud had claimed more MVP honors than any other Seeker of his era, cementing his status as a living legend. In an interview, the veteran had once said that before every match, he pictured the exact moment his fingers closed around the Snitch. Harry tried to copy the technique, desperate for even a flicker of calm, but whenever he shut his eyes, the deafening rhythm of the opposing fans’ chants surged through the locker room walls, drowning out his fragile daydreams and dragging him back to the daunting challenge ahead.

Harry closed his eyes and tried again to picture the Snitch in his hand. A moment later, Coach Deverell entered the locker room, clearly sensing the grim atmosphere of his players. The man folded his arms and paced the room for a moment, drawing the eyes of everyone in the locker room. His presence seemed to fill the cramped space, and the rhythmic thud of his boots against the concrete floor momentarily competed with the muffled, aggressive chants bleeding through the walls.

“This will be one of the toughest matches of the year,” Coach Deverell said simply, his voice low but carrying a sharp edge that cut through the tension. “I’ve already been out there. Had a look at the crowd. They’re ready for blood. They think their team is going to steal a win from us tonight. They think Potter is made of glass because he is a rookie. Because he is still untested in this league. Are they right?”

All the eyes of the locker room fell on Harry, and Coach Deverell stared down his rookie, speaking calmly, “Are they?”

“No, coach,” Harry said softly.

“What about you, Wood?” Deverell said, turning his attention to his captain, “They think you are not ready to be Captain because you’re the youngest in the league. They don’t think you are cut out for the big moments. Are they right?”

“No, coach,” Oliver said through gritted teeth, standing to his feet.

“Pucey?” Deverell asked. “You’re a rising star Chaser in this league. They think you’d rather play beside people of your own blood and standing. They think your politics define your game. Are they right?”

Pucey hesitated, then shook his head. “No coach.”

“Dubois, Chandler, they think all they have to do is take out one of you, and the other will fold under the pressure of their beaters. Are they right?” Deverell questioned.

“No, coach,” they both said quietly.

“Are you all already beaten?” Coach Deverell roared, making several flinch at his tone, “Third match of the season and you’re sitting here like we’ve already lost! Have we?”

“No, coach,” several of them answered, Harry among them.

No one said anything for a moment, and Deverell stopped his pacing and looked at each of them, his gaze lingering for a moment on Harry. “They look at our history and they see vulnerabilities. They see untested talent. Those fans and everyone in the other locker room hear the Magpies' fight song, and think about the thirty-two titles they have and expect us to bow to the weight of that legacy. But what they don’t see is the work you’ve put in, the early mornings when the pitch was empty. They don’t see the discipline it took to ignore the noise and focus on the game.”

The man paused for a long moment before saying, “Tonight, we aren't just playing against the Montrose Magpies. We're playing against everything that reputation is supposed to mean. We are playing against every doubt they’ve cast on this team. Let them think you’re fragile. Let them think you’re untested. Because when we walk out that tunnel, you’re going to show them that Puddlemere owns this sky and every other sky we fly in. You are going to show them that Puddlemere is the future of this league.”

Harry watched him, adrenaline beginning to burn through his veins. The nervous tension that had once coiled in every muscle now sharpened into readiness. He knew Deverell was right. Every player had endured the grueling work needed to reach this moment, but he and Oliver had pushed each other beyond what either had thought possible. Those early mornings on the pitch, running drills long before the rest of the squad arrived, had become the foundation of the confidence now stirring inside him. They could do this. They were going to face the Magpies’ legacy head-on.

The team rose to their feet now in a single blur of navy blue. The silence was no longer suffocating but charged, like the air before a lightning strike. None spoke as Coach Deverell leaned in and bellowed, “WHO IS THE FUTURE OF THIS LEAGUE?”

“Puddlemere!” The team cried out in a unified roar that seemed to make the very lockers rattle.

“WHO IS THE FUTURE OF THIS LEAGUE?” Deverell demanded again.

“PUDDLEMERE!” The team screamed, their voices finally drowning out the muffled chants of the Magpie fans bleeding through the walls.

“Then let’s show them,” Deverell said, his eyes wild with a fierce conviction. “Win or lose, let’s make these bastards respect us. Show them that we're here, and sooner or later, we're going to win! If not tonight, then tomorrow. If not tomorrow, then the next day. This is our time. This is our sky, and we are here to claim it!”

The team erupted. Harry’s hand closed around the polished handle of his Comet, the wood cool and grounding against his sweating palm. Around him, the players grabbed their brooms and surged toward the exit, spilling into the narrow concrete tunnel leading to the pitch.

The closer they came to the pitch, the more the muffled chants sharpened into a unified wall of sound. The tunnel acted as a megaphone, funneling the raw energy of thousands of opposing fans directly at them. Ahead, the darkness of the passage began to fray, replaced by a blinding, rectangular glare of stadium lights. Harry squinted as they neared the threshold, the transition from shadow to brilliance accompanied by a sudden blast of cold, evening air and a roar so intense it felt like a physical blow.

Above them, the glare of the stadium lights swallowed the night sky, illuminating an ocean of black-and-white banners surging in the stands. The Magpies were already airborne, their black-and-white robes cutting across the stadium lights. Harry mounted his broom and kicked off the ground, the sudden surge sharpening his senses as Deverell’s words echoed in his mind.

As the reserves retreated to the sidelines, the announcer began the rapid-fire introductions of Puddlemere United’s starters, his magically amplified voice reverberating around the stadium.

“At Keeper and Captain, fourth-year player Oliver Wood, out of Hogwarts!” the announcer called. His rehearsed enthusiasm was immediately met by organized hostility. He left a brief, deliberate pause before the entire Magpies fan base screamed out in a singular, deafening roar.

“WHO CARES!”

The Magpies faithful repeated the refrain after every Puddlemere name, their voices acting as a physical weight designed to crush or frustrate the visiting team's spirit before the first whistle even blew. It was ritual. The announcer even timed his pauses to give the crowd its moment after every name. Harry watched from his broom, observing the coordinated psychological warfare that had helped make the Magpies the most successful club in league history. In this arena, every silence and sound was a weapon.

Harry scanned the opposing lineup until his eyes found the only familiar face among them: Angelina Johnson. When their eyes met, Angelina offered him a two-finger salute and a cheeky grin that said, Welcome to my house. His gaze moved over the confident, borderline-cocky faces of the other players until it finally settled on Cormack MaCloud. The legendary Seeker was built much like Harry himself, but unlike his grinning teammates, MaCloud's expression was completely neutral, his attention already fixed on the match ahead. Harry watched as MaCloud climbed above the other players, surveying the pitch and everyone on it. Harry climbed to meet him. Once they were level across the pitch, he offered the veteran a brief, respectful nod.

MaCloud returned his nod, and Harry pushed the roar of the crowd away. Harry tightened his grip on the broom handle, barely processing the referee's final instructions. The announcer's voice was booming, but Harry no longer registered the words.

As the Quaffle flew into the air, a single thought cut through everything else. This is your time.

The game below instantly became a blur of frantic motion and explosive chaos as the Quaffle was released, and MaCloud didn’t waste a single second of the unfolding madness. He dove into the fray with reckless elegance, zooming in and out of the plays below like a hawk hunting in a storm. Harry watched from his higher vantage point, squinting against the glare of the stadium lights to track the veteran’s erratic path.

Harry wasn’t sure what the man’s specific angle was in this early stage of the match, but the warnings Ron had shared the night before echoed clearly in his mind. Ron had explained that MaCloud wasn't a traditional Seeker who simply waited on the fringes; the man took a sadistic pleasure in interfering with the opposing team's plays, using his broom as a weapon to disrupt passing lanes and force costly turnovers. He was a disruptive force, a physical presence that sought to unnerve the Chasers as much as out-fly the Seeker.

However, the Puddlemere United Chasers—Pucey, Dubois, and Chandler—seemed more than ready for these veteran theatrics. They moved with a synchronized discipline that spoke to the grueling early morning drills Coach Deverell had forced upon them. Every time MaCloud attempted to weave through their line or clip a shoulder to jar the Quaffle loose, they anticipated the move, tightening their passing formation and utilizing quick, sharp lobs that bypassed the man entirely. They were playing with a chip on their shoulders, fueled by the roar of the Magpie fans and the fire Deverell had ignited in the locker room, refusing to let the legend dictate the rhythm of their game.

Harry, for his part, decided to mirror MaCloud's aggressive tactics. He refused to be outshined by his opponent or remain a passive observer while the veteran seeker attempted to dismantle his team's momentum. With reckless abandon, he dove into the thick of the opposing Chaser formation, his broom a blur of mahogany against the blinding stadium lights. In a moment of sheer, desperate intuition, he swatted a stray Quaffle out of mid-air, redirecting it toward Charlotte with a maneuver that was as much a product of blind luck as it was burgeoning professional skill.

With both Seekers now actively prowling the mid-field rather than hovering on the outskirts, the match descended into a violent, high-altitude theater of chaos. The air was filled with the sickening thud of mid-air crashes and the whistle of Bludgers hurtling through the air as the beaters struggled to protect their teams. Below them, the fans were a cacophony of roars and shrieks, their energy feeding the frantic pace as goals were traded in rapid succession on each side of the pitch.

Harry ducked under the full swing of a beater’s bat, a move so sudden he wasn’t even sure if the aggression had originated from the Montrose Magpies or a stray bit of friendly fire in the heat of the moment. The air whistled sharply past his ears, thick with the scent of broomstick wax as he was forced to roll into a tight spiral to avoid a collision with Adrian Pucey, who was hurtling toward the hoops in a blur of deep navy robes, and then swerved violently to his left as a bludger screamed toward his midsection.

His eyes narrowed behind his goggles, taking the briefest of moments to survey the vast, shimmering arena for the telltale glint of gold. The stadium lights at Montrose were blinding, creating long, deceptive shadows that danced across the pitch, making the search for the snitch nearly impossible amidst the frantic motion of the Chasers and the surging ocean of black and white banners in the stands.

When no sight of the snitch was found, Harry didn’t retreat to the safety of the upper atmosphere. Instead, he surged back into the heart of the chaos, mirroring MaCloud’s aggressive prowling of the midfield. He felt the physical impact of the game’s energy—the sickening thud of mid-air crashes and the roar of a crowd so intense it felt like a physical weight against his chest. Every muscle was primed, his knuckles white against the polished wood of his broom, as he transformed from a seeker into a disruptive shadow, determined to show the Magpies that Puddlemere would fight for these skies.

.o.

Hours had passed, and the physical toll of the marathon match was etched into every movement on the pitch. Surges of scoring had swung the momentum back and forth like a violent pendulum; Montrose had once commanded a daunting 100-point lead, threatening to blow the game wide open, while Puddlemere had clawed their way back to lead by as much as thirty. However, after nearly six hours of relentless play, the scoreboard now reflected a grueling deadlock, the game stalled at an even tally as both sides refused to yield.

The attrition was visible in the rotations; every reserve except Cho had cycled into the game to provide fleeting moments of fresh energy to the flagging starters. The Puddlemere team was wearing down, their robes heavy with sweat, their maneuvers losing the crispness they had possessed early in the evening. The only bright side—if it could be called that—was that the Montrose fanbase was only just beginning to show signs of losing steam, and even then, their fatigue only seemed to manifest as a desperate, renewed fervor. It seemed as if entire sections of the crowd were picking up the rhythmic Magpie chants with a frantic intensity, as if their vocal support alone could tip the scales. This meant that there was little to no silence across the pitch at any given time, the air vibrating with a constant, oppressive wall of sound. These fans and this team were truly relentless, and in the exhaustion of the sixth hour, Harry finally understood the sheer psychological weight that had made Montrose so successful over the decades.

A chant broke out in the crowd, led by one particular rambunctious section.

"Thirty-Two and Counting" “How many cups?” “Thirty-two!” “How many more?” “Just one more!” “Magpies! Magpies! Magpies!”

As the chant rang out throughout the crowd, the Magpies seemed to catch a temporary surge, but a few spectacular, desperate saves by Wood seemed to temper expectations, leading to a timeout signaled by the opposing coach, a grizzled veteran Ron had identified to Harry the night before as Mitch Brown. As Harry descended toward the team benches, the transition from the high-velocity chaos of the pitch to the sudden, relative stillness of the ground made his head swim. The roar of the Montrose faithful remained a loud, rhythmic thumping that seemed to vibrate the very soles of his boots.

Black and white! Black and white! Cormack's ending this game tonight!

Coach Deverell stood waiting, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his gaze not meeting those of his weary players but instead scanning the vast, shimmering arena as if searching for a weakness in the stadium's own architecture.

The Puddlemere squad collapsed onto the benches, their deep navy robes dark with sweat and grime after hours of relentless play. The crispness they had displayed in the early evening was long gone, replaced by the heavy-lidded determination of athletes pushed to their absolute limits. Wood sat nearby, leaning forward with his head in his hands, his knuckles still white from gripping his broom. Even in this state of total exhaustion, the fire Deverell had ignited in the locker room still flickered in their eyes.

“There hasn’t been a sign of the snitch in hours,” Deverell spoke, his voice low and gritty, cutting through the ambient noise of the chanting fans. “You lot are doing an amazing job at keeping us in this game. This is the grit I asked for. We just have to keep up our rotations and keep us as fresh as possible to outlast them.” The coach finally turned his gaze toward Harry, his eyes narrowed as he assessed the rookie seeker’s physical state. “Potter, you’ve been up there since the first whistle, matching MaCloud move for move. Are you ready for a break? I can send Chang in to give you a breather before the final stretch.”

Potter! Potter! What a shame! Still living off a schoolboy game!

Harry’s foot thumped against the ground, his exhaustion and nerves fraying as he leaned back his head and took a long swig of water from a canteen, his eyes drifting across the pitch to where MaCloud was having a heated argument with his coach. Shaking his head, Harry pointed across the pitch at his opponent. “I’ll take a break when he does.”

Jason, who was on his left, thumped him on the shoulder in respect, the heavy thud of a beater's gloved hand grounding Harry in the moment. Around them, the others grumbled in weary but sincere appreciation for his determination. Even Pucey, usually a bastion of sneering disdain, seemed to hold a fleeting tinge of respect behind the usual loathing, his sharp eyes lingering on Harry for a moment longer than necessary before he spat a glob of blood onto the grass. Harry glanced at Cho, who looked pale at the prospect of playing in such a high-stakes moment against one of the best in the game; the sight of her trembling hands confirmed his resolve. He knew he would have to hold on for as long as the veteran MaCloud did, serving as the shield his team needed against the Magpies' elite player.

Across the pitch, the Magpies were regrouping, their black and white robes flourishing as they took the skies once again. Deverell called out their names and shouted words of encouragement as the players scrambled to their feet and took to the air again.

Harry adjusted his grip on the Comet's polished handle, the wood cool and grounding against his sweating palms, and prepared to return to the chaotic, high-altitude theater that had become his reality.

The match stretched into its seventh grueling hour, the physical and mental exhaustion of the players now a palpable weight hanging over the pitch. At some point during the relentless exchange of goals and near-misses, Harry made a tactical shift. He decided to abandon his approach of merely disrupting the Magpies' offensive plays and instead chose to engage Cormack MaCloud in a direct, unrelenting battle of wills every single time they crossed paths.

Stepping far outside his usual comfort zone, Harry began to rely on nothing but his raw stamina and an ironclad determination to outlast the legendary seeker. He transformed into a persistent, navy-clad shadow, following MaCloud with a predatory intensity that seemed to catch the veteran off guard. Every chance Harry found to initiate contact, he did—shouldering into the older man during tight turns and using his broom's momentum to bump MaCloud whenever their flight paths converged. This aggressive, physical style was a far cry from the finesse Harry usually employed, but it was exactly what the moment demanded.

As the two seekers spiraled through the chaotic midfield, Harry managed to catch the attention of his beaters, Jason and Conner, while hurtling past them in a blur. He roared over the deafening crowd for them to start taking crack shots at him, as if they were back at the practice facility. His plan was simple: dodge the Bludgers and hopefully catch MaCloud in the crossfires, regardless of how close he was. The instruction was reckless, but effective. For several tense minutes, Harry and the veteran seeker managed to dodge the whistling iron balls with grace, but as Harry’s constant badgering and the sheer weight of the seven-hour match began to take their toll, MaCloud’s reflexes finally faltered.

The opening Harry had been fighting for finally materialized. Just as MaCloud swerved to avoid Harry’s latest shoulder check, a Bludger sent screaming across the pitch by Conner found its mark. The heavy iron sphere slammed directly into MaCloud’s side with a sickening thud that was audible even over the roar of the Magpie faithful. The impact was so severe that it nearly unseated the veteran from his broom, forcing him to cling desperately to the handle as he spiraled momentarily out of control. Harry didn't wait to see if his opponent would recover; he immediately turned his focus back to the shimmering arena, his eyes searching for the snitch while his rival was finally on the defensive.

Unfortunately, Harry saw nothing, and moments later MaCloud had recovered, flying beside him at a breakneck speed. The man shot him a glare, and Harry just offered a shrug and a grin.

Before the man could voice his displeasure, Harry finally spotted the snitch, a glint of gold fluttering near the base of the Magpies’ hoops. In a surge of motion that pushed his Comet to its absolute limits, Harry darted across the pitch, the wind howling against his goggles like a physical gale. He was halfway to his target when his back exploded in a white-hot flash of agony. A Bludger, heavy and relentless, struck him squarely in the middle of his back. The air was driven from his lungs in a guttural wheeze, and for a terrifying second, his vision blurred into a kaleidoscope of gray and black.

Despite the searing pain radiating from his spine, Harry shook off the falter in his flight pattern, his fingers locking onto the broom handle with a death grip born of pure desperation. He refused to let the momentum of the seven-hour marathon die in the shadow of a flesh wound. Gritting his teeth against the nausea, he leaned forward, flattening himself against the polished wood to decrease wind resistance, and continued after the golden ball.

MaCloud had overtaken him during his recoil of pain. Harry stared forward seeing the veteran seeker’s face twisted in a mask of agony, his left arm dangling uselessly at his side following the previous Bludger hit. In comparison, Harry had definitely hurt his ribs from the impact of the Magpies Beater’s attack, but MaCloud had to be nursing a serious injury, possibly several broken bones. Still, the two pursued the Snitch in a final, frantic dive toward the stadium floor. The legendary Seeker’s determination was staggering, a silent testament to the titles the Magpies had won over the last decade, but Harry could see the minute tremors in the older man’s hand as they hurtled toward the shimmering grass. MaCloud slid alongside him and reached for the Snitch.

I’ve got it, Harry thought for half a second, but to his utter amazement, MaCloud overtook him. Harry stretched out his arm, but before he could wrap his fingers around the Snitch, the golden ball was in his opponent’s hand. His heart sank as he slowed to a stop.

Despite the elation of the Magpies and their crowd, MaCloud swirled around to face Harry, speaking for the first time in the match. “That’s the best match I’ve had in years, Potter. Phenomenal game.”

The man offered his fist to Harry, who tapped it despite his shock. Harry gave the veteran a lazy, left-handed salute before whirling his broom toward the ground, his heart still in his stomach from the crushing weight of the loss. Despite the mutual respect shared in that final dive, the reality of the scoreboard was a bitter pill to swallow after seven hours of grueling, physical attrition. He could see his teammates slowly descending, their silhouettes jagged against the dying glow of the stadium lights, each wearing the same disappointed, exhausted expression. The deep navy robes of the Puddlemere squad, once vibrant and sharp, were now heavy with sweat and grime.

Harry’s gaze drifted across the expansive arena, spotting Pucey in the distance. The Chaser was beginning to descend from a point closer to the Magpies' goals, isolated from the rest of the formation. As Pucey neared the lower bleachers, he was immediately met with a wall of organized hostility from the opposing fans, who were still riding the high of MaCloud’s victory. The jeers were deafening, a cacophony of insults targeting Pucey’s blood status, politics, and perceived arrogance.

Some fans, emboldened by the chaotic energy of the marathon match, began to throw half-empty snacks, drinks, and other debris toward the Chaser. Pucey didn't even flinch, his jaw set in that familiar mask of sneering disdain that Harry had grown to recognize as his primary defense mechanism.

Harry’s protective instincts flared with a desperate urge to fly to his teammate’s defense, but he forced down the mounting outrage, acutely aware that the sting of their defeat cut far deeper than any vitriol from the Magpies fans. Turning away, he began his descent toward the pitch.

Suddenly, a flash of jagged red light snapped Harry’s attention back toward his teammate. A hex had streaked through the shower of falling debris and struck Pucey squarely in the small of his back.

Pucey let out a raw cry of agony that cut through the fading chants of the Magpie faithful. His body arched unnaturally, his grip on his broom faltering as the curse ripped through him. Harry’s eyes widened in sheer horror as he saw his teammate begin to slide from his seat, the broom spinning aimlessly away. Adrenaline, cold and sharp, replaced the fatigue in Harry's veins as he kicked his Comet into a desperate, vertical dive.

"ADRIAN!" he roared, his voice cracking with a fear he hadn’t felt since the war.

Harry had never flown so fast in his life, and somehow he reached Pucey before the Chaser hit the ground. With a desperate burst of strength, Harry pulled the man into his arms, using his own body to shield the falling Chaser and stop him from impacting the hard earth. The two tumbled across the grass, their momentum carrying them several yards before they finally stopped.

Despite the adrenaline, the impact jarred Harry's teeth, but his focus remained entirely on the limp form in his arms as he gasped, “Pucey! Talk to me. Are you alright?”

Jeers and cruel laughter erupted from the nearby stands, a sharp contrast to Pucey’s terrifying silence. Suddenly, Harry felt a familiar, primal warning tingle down the back of his neck, a sensation honed by years of survival. His wand was in his hand an instant later, and he deflected a jagged streak of incoming magic just inches from his face. Harry growled as the golden shield sizzled under the intensity of the hex, his eyes narrowing toward the crowd. Wood sprinted toward them, his face full of panic.

“Harry!” Oliver shouted, his voice nearly drowned out by the chaotic roar of the stadium.

“Get Pucey out of here!” Harry demanded.

He didn't wait for a reply, his wand already moving in a fluid arc to deflect another curse coming from the stands, the red light splashing harmlessly against his barrier. The air around them was thick with the smell of scorched ozone. The match had become a battlefield.

"Now, Oliver!" Harry roared, stepping protectively in front of his teammate as more wands rose in the bleachers.

Oliver reached down to hoist Pucey, his wand gripped firmly in his free hand. The moment Harry saw his teammate was covered, he didn't hesitate. With a crack that echoed like a gunshot, he apparated—tearing straight through the stadium's reinforced wards with sheer, desperate willpower—and reappeared directly into the stands. He landed amid a half-dozen fans draped in the white and black robes of the Magpies, their faces twisted with drunken malice. Before they could even register his arrival, Harry's wand whipped through the air. Four of the six were disarmed in an instant, their wands spinning away towards the pitch. The remaining two were stripped of their wands a heartbeat later. All six attackers were downed in seconds, their limbs bound tightly by conjured ropes that bit into their skin.

But before Harry could do anything further, the air around him erupted with a series of sharp pops. A dozen security wizards appeared in a flurry of movement, some wearing Puddlemere navy, others Magpie black and white. Among the reinforcements was Rex, who looked visibly alarmed at the sight of Harry standing over the bound attackers. Harry’s emerald eyes were still burning with the remnants of battle.

“Harry, are you alright?” Rex asked, his voice tight as he moved to secure the area.

“These assholes cursed Pucey in the back!” Harry barked out, his voice raw with a protective fury that seemed to vibrate the very floor of the stadium stands. He stood tall over the six bound Magpie fans, his breathing heavy, his wand clenched tightly in his hand. The fury hadn’t faded; if anything, the sight of his teammate falling from the sky had reignited the battle-hardened instincts he had tried so hard to leave behind after the war.

Some of the security wizards in black and white, clearly rattled by the sudden violence and the sight of a famous athlete standing over prone civilians, began to raise their wands towards Harry. Their expressions were a mixture of fear and duty, as if they expected him to continue his assault on the rest of the hostile crowd. Harry’s jaw tightened, his body tensing as he prepared to defend himself against the very people meant to keep the peace.

But before the tension could snap into another skirmish, Rex moved with decisive authority that cut through the chaos. “Stand down!” he yelled at the opposing security detail, his voice commanding enough to make several of them lower their wands in hesitation. He stepped forward, placing himself between Harry and the nervous guards, his focus shifting entirely toward the young seeker. Rex’s face was a mask of professional concern, but his eyes held a glimmer of understanding for the young man who had already faced enough combat for three lifetimes.

“I’ve got this now, Harry. No one else is getting cursed tonight, I promise you,” Rex said, his tone softening but remaining firm. He placed a grounding hand on Harry’s shoulder, pulling his attention away from the bound attackers. “The Aurors are on their way to take these six into custody. Let’s get you back to the locker room. Your team needs you there, and you need your rest. You’ve done your part. Let me take it from here.”

Harry looked at the bound attackers one last time, his lip curling in disdain, before slowly lowering his wand. The weight of the seven-hour match and the subsequent rescue finally began to catch up with him, making his limbs feel like lead. Harry gave Rex a stiff nod. Rex waved for his colleagues to take control of the scene before wrapping an arm around Harry’s shoulders. Rex spoke. “I’m going to Apparate us to the locker room, Harry, deep breath.”

Harry exhaled slowly and nodded, allowing himself to be whisked away from the chaos of the pitch.