A Star Is Born Chapter 19 (Patreon)

Chapter 19

Harry had only played two games on the road as a professional Quidditch player, but already the sterile scent of an away team’s locker room was becoming familiar to him, and it did little to soothe the fire raging in his veins. Rex had apparated Harry to the room to be with the rest of the team, but the man had already returned to the stadium stands to ensure his fellow security wizards saw to the arrest of those who had assaulted Pucey.

Pucey was in the back room, already being attended to by the team’s healer, a grim-faced woman Harry had surprisingly little interaction with since being drafted.

Wood stood by the closed door, looking in through the small window with his fist pressed tightly against his chin. Harry immediately walked over to the man, but as he did, his eyes surveyed the room. He could see the emotional toll the aftermath of the game had taken, along with the physical toll of playing for seven hours. Charlotte was leaning against one of the lockers, her foot tapping the floor nervously while her eyes fluttered open and shut as if she were fighting the urge to sleep. Across the room, Conner had practically folded into his chair, but his eyes remained locked on the door, the worry for his teammate outweighing his physical exhaustion.

“How is he?” Harry asked softly as he approached Oliver. Through the small window, Harry saw his teammate lying on the cot with the team healer standing over him and Coach Deverell watching from the corner. The witch was methodically waving her wand over his back, whispering diagnostic incantations that caused the injured Chaser to let out sharp hisses of breath. The sight of Pucey—usually so composed and arrogant—limp and pale, grounded Harry instantly. The adrenaline that had propelled him through the stands began to curdle into a cold, protective rage.

“In a lot of pain, obviously,” Wood said, before turning to Harry, “What about you? Are you okay?”

Harry paused, glancing over his shoulder, seeing the pale faces of each of his teammates. Some looked scared, others concerned, while others, like Cho, had their wands in a death grip, looking as angry as Harry felt.

“I don’t think I have been that angry since my fifth year,” Harry said honestly, “I just saw them cursing Pucey, and… I couldn’t stand there and do nothing. I couldn’t let them get away with it.”

“The bastards got what they deserved,” Charlotte Dubois said, the player sitting closest to Harry and Oliver.

“Should’ve pitched them off the top of the stands,” Conner said in agreement.

Harry took a deep breath, grateful none of his teammates were criticizing his reaction. “The Aurors will handle it.”

Oliver sighed, running a hand through his hair, before glancing back toward the medical room, “This happened from time to time during the war, but I think this is going to mark the first attack during a game since you killed Voldemort. I know it hasn’t been that long, but before the war, it hadn’t happened in England for over a century. This is a bad day for the game, and our team.”

No one answered Wood’s words for a moment, but Harry and Oliver both took a step back as Coach Deverell opened the door to the medical room and softly shut it behind him. He kept his hand on the doorknob for a moment, then released it with a deep breath and turned to address his team.

Coach Deverell didn’t waste time on platitudes. He paced to the center of the room, his boots making that familiar, rhythmic thud. He looked at each of them, his gaze landing on Harry with a complexity that spoke of both pride and deep concern.

“We lost the match,” Deverell said, his voice hard yet quiet. “But we survived a warzone that followed. The league is going to convene an emergency session regarding the incident in the stands and our reaction to it. Potter, I will prepare a statement for you or check with ownership about what you’re cleared to say, but we have to keep our tempers in check.”

Oliver asked softly, breaking the silence that followed, his face still streaked with grime from the match. “What about Pucey, Coach?”

“The healers are doing their work,” Deverell replied curtly. “He’s stabilized. That’s all we know for now. Harry.” He pivoted, his eyes locking onto Harry. “You’re the face they want. The press is already swarming the lobby. They aren’t going to care about the score. They’re going to care about the blood.”

“I won’t give them anything, coach,” Harry promised.

“I know you won’t!” Coach Deverell said, pointing his finger at Harry, before raising his voice, “But you should! You should tell those bastards what is going to happen if they—or anyone else—ever attacks a member of this team. I know it, you know it, and if there’s any sense left in this locker room, your team knows it.”

Harry stared at his coach, his eyes widening slightly at the man’s fury, and said nothing as Deverell heaved for breath, trying to contain his emotions, “I watched several players attacked like this throughout the war…you know what the crowds did…they laughed. Some panicked and ran, but the majority…they watched, they laughed, but today…today, Potter, you taught them that there are consequences.”

Coach Deverell looked towards the rest of his players and raised his voice to a yell, “Because there are consequences! You attack a player, like some sort of miscreant or criminal and act like it’s a Merlin-damned joke. Throw the lot in Azkaban, I say!”

No one answered, but all eyes fell on Coach Deverell as he ran a hand through his hair, and turned back to Harry, “But the world isn’t our friend, and life isn’t fair. That crowd out there tonight proved that. We only have each other out there…and I know it’s going to be hard, Potter. You are going to have to keep your temper. Some of those reporters are going to call for your head, call you unstable, call you the defender of pure-blood rights, claim that you are instigating violence, but you are going to have to turn the other cheek. Can you do that?”

“I-I-” Harry began, but his voice caught in his throat.

Deverell didn’t hesitate to go for the kill, as if he were sensing weakness, “I’m talking to you, Potter, you filthy blood traitor!”

A collective gasp swept through the room. Harry glared at him as a light fixture overhead ruptured. “What did you say?”

Even Oliver was too stunned to step between his coach and one of his oldest friends.

“This is about Quidditch, Harry. You’re going to hear it all out there. I’ve got to know if you have what it takes. Our season, our franchise might depend on it,” Deverell said, raising his hands slightly in defense.

“You want a player that doesn’t have the guts to fight back? To defend his teammates?” Harry said in a dangerously low tone.

“No, Potter,” Deverell said, pointing at him now, “I need you to have the guts not to fight back.” The room didn’t move for a moment.

A vision of what lay ahead flashed before his eyes. He knew he would have allies in the press, but the voices of those who wanted to see his downfall, those like Tracey Davis, whose closest friends Harry had undoubtedly killed during the Battle of Hogwarts, would be like sharks in blood-filled waters. The voices from the war and his past seemed louder than ever as he stared off into space, sinking heavily onto a nearby bench.

Silence filled the locker room, but only for a moment.

“He won’t do it alone,” Cho said, standing up from her place on the opposite side of the locker room.

“There’ll only be a few chairs in the press conference available, Ms. Chang. You didn’t play in tonight’s game, so I can’t—”

“Then we will stand behind him,” Garrett said from Harry’s right, surprising the Seeker as the man rose, “He fought to defend one of our own. Put himself at risk by taking on six adult wizards. The least we can do is—”

“Stand up there with him,” Charlotte finished, cutting off her boyfriend as she stood and took his hand.

“If he goes out there and the media wants to be vicious, then we will protect him,” Jason said, gesturing to himself and Conner, “Just like we do on the pitch.”

“We should all stand behind him then,” Oliver said, looking towards the reserves, who had been quiet so far, “We may not be able to address what happened, but we can, as a team, show we stand behind Harry, who did nothing but protect his own. He did that for us. We would be terrible teammates if we didn’t do the same for him.”

Deverell’s mouth tightened into a straight line, but the look in his eyes told Harry everything he needed to know about the man’s pride in the team, “The league may not like it. We may all get fines.”

Oliver scoffed, “I’ll pay everyone’s fine. This is more important than galleons.”

“Well, that settles it for me,” Harry said jokingly, standing again, causing the tension in the room to fracture, “We’ll do it as a team, then.”

.o.

The transition to the press conference room was a sensory assault. Even before they opened the heavy double doors, Harry could hear the cacophony—a roar of voices and the rhythmic clicking of cameras that sounded like incoming spell fire. Harry adjusted his clean navy robes, forced his shoulders back, and walked into the glare with each of his teammates behind him.

The room was blinding, a wall of light and noise. Journalists and photographers were packed into the makeshift space, their frantic energy creating a suffocating atmosphere. As Harry approached the small three-person table usually reserved for the player of the game, the head coach, and the captain, he barely registered the questions being hurled at him and his teammates.

Harry never looked back at his teammates, but he saw Coach Deverell approach on his right, closest to the press, as if he were protecting Harry from any potential hostilities. As Harry and Coach Deverell took their seats behind the table, the noise spiked, a hundred voices shouting questions simultaneously. Oliver removed the chair intended for him and took his spot behind Harry, with the rest of the team, showing their solidarity.

“Potter! Is it true you attacked six fans in the stands?” “Was Pucey targeted because of his blood status?”

“Do you believe you belong in this league after the violence you displayed tonight?”

Coach Deverell leaned forward, his wand in hand, amplifying his voice, his jaw set, stirring a rare surge of respect in Harry. “We’re here to discuss the match,” Deverell stated, his voice booming through the Sonorous charm. “The Puddlemere organization is cooperating with the Auror investigation regarding the events in the stands. We will not be answering questions about the security breach at this time.”

The reporters didn’t care. They smelled blood, and they were relentless. A journalist from the Daily Prophet pushed to the front, pointing a recording quill directly at Harry.

“Mr. Potter! Reports from the stands claim you used combat magic forbidden to professional athletes—not merely to defend a teammate. Did you lose control, or is the ‘Boy-Who-Lived’ simply unable to leave the battlefield behind?”

The room fell deathly silent. The question hung in the air like a Bludger seconds from impact. Harry felt the familiar, dangerous tingle on the back of his neck as every eye in the room fixed on him—not as a Quidditch player, but as a spectacle. He lowered his gaze to the table, briefly met Coach Deverell’s eyes, and steadied himself. Then he turned toward the blinding lights, found the journalist’s stare, and prepared to deliver the statement the organization had cleared him to make.

“I didn’t attack any fans,” Harry said, his voice low, steady, and carrying a sharp edge that silenced the murmurs. “I protected a teammate who was struck by an illegal hex from the crowd. If you’re asking whether I chose to intervene when my teammate was falling from the sky, the answer is yes. I will always make that choice. If you want to talk about the match—about the seven hours of Quidditch, the rotations, or the amazing catch made tonight by MaCloud—I’m here. But if you’re looking for a headline about anything that happened after the Snitch was caught, you’re in the wrong place.”

Several questions were hurled his way. Harry just shook his head, answering none, until Coach Deverell finally called on a reporter he must’ve recognized as an ally, “Mr. Boot, please, if you have a question about the match, please ask it.”

Thank Merlin, Harry thought, not even able to see his old friend through the throngs of people. The voices quieted down enough for Harry to hear Terry, “Harry, that was a hard-fought match, but what I really want to know is how are you feeling about your first loss in the league?”

Taking a deep breath, Harry waited for the crowd to quiet down a bit, before beginning to talk over the stragglers, “It’s a tough pill to swallow. It was a hard-fought match. The Snitch literally evaded us for hours, and I thought I had it there at the end, but he beat me to it seconds after it appeared. It was the best game I’ve ever played. MaCloud has nothing but my utmost respect, and all the players of Montrose conducted themselves like real professionals. I feel no shame in losing to one of the best in the league and only hope I can get some redemption in the Championship match, or next season.”

Looking for another friendly face, Harry spotted a reporter who was usually more moderate in her approach to questions, “Brooklyn, Puddlemere Press. Your question.”

The witch beamed at him as she stood up. “Thank you, Harry. Crazy game, great performance by you, and all your teammates standing behind you. Can you tell us anything about the health of Adrian Pucey? Will he be available next week when Puddlemere returns home to play the Falcons?”

“I wish I had an answer for you on that, ma’am,” Harry answered honestly, “When we all left the locker room, the healer was giving him a look over. Unfortunately, I am no healer, so I couldn’t possibly answer with any sort of confidence.”

Coach Deverell leaned in and filled in some gaps, “What I can tell you all is that Adrian Pucey is one tough bastard, and one of the best rising Chasers in the league. If he is able to play next weekend, even at fifty percent, I would trust him on the pitch if he is up for it.”

The team behind Harry grumbled their approval and agreement, while the press began hurling more questions. Harry spotted Susan in the front row, but the witch looked paler than he was used to seeing her. Harry was surprised to see that she wasn’t trying to get a question in. Instead, his eyes flickered across the room searching for another familiar presence amidst the sea of flashing cameras and shouting journalists. He felt the weight of his teammates’ solidarity at his back, a silent wall of support that countered the aggressive energy of the room.

Harry tightened his grip on the edge of the table, his knuckles white against the dark wood, as he listened to the dozens of questions completely unrelated to the match that were being thrown in his direction. The young man braced himself as the wave of scrutiny regarding the chaos in the stands washed over him.

“Piper Grace, Quidditch Weekly, go ahead,” Coach Deverell called, addressing another witch towards the back.

“Thank you, Coach,” Ms. Grace said, before turning her attention towards Harry, “With the league launching an emergency investigation, are you prepared to accept a suspension, fine, or punishment from the league?”

“Next question,” Coach Deverell grunted, ignoring the witch completely, while Harry just leaned back in exasperation.

More questions were shouted, but none were answered, before Coach Deverell finally stood with a shake of his head, “If no one else has questions regarding the match, then we are finished here.”

When Deverell motioned Harry to follow, the teen rose stiffly, his navy robes rustling against the metal chair. He allowed the man to grip him firmly by the arm—a gesture as much about protection as guidance—and escort him from the booming press room. Behind them, the professional facade of the Puddlemere United team finally fractured.

Questions were now being hurled at his whole team with desperate intensity—journalists leaning over chairs and thrusting recording quills forward like weapons. While most of his teammates just ignored the press, keeping their heads down and their expressions blank, some, like Conner and Jason, reached their breaking point; they began demanding the reporters to ‘give it a rest’ or ‘kick rocks,’ their voices rising above the din of camera shutters. That was the last Harry heard of the chaotic spectacle. The heavy double doors thudded shut behind him, muffling the roar of the media as Deverell led him back down the sterile, dimly lit corridor. Each step away from the flashes felt like a weight lifting, as Deverell led him toward the private recovery area where they could finally reunite with their families and escape the long shadow of the night’s violence.

.o.

“Harry!” Hermione cried out, running towards Harry as soon as they approached the area where friends and family could greet the players.

The team emerged from the locker room in exhausted silence. Pucey was being taken to St. Mungo’s for further evaluation, while Coach Deverell had just thanked the team for being as professional as anyone could expect before dismissing them for the evening. Little was said about the loss at this point, but Harry knew there would be plenty of time to watch the tapes later.

Opening his arms, Harry pulled Hermione into a tight embrace. He didn’t let the witch go right away, and he felt Ron’s hand settle softly on his shoulder, as if he were offering his silent protection from anything else that could go wrong for the evening.

“Are you alright?” Hermione asked. “We watched the press conference from the back. Those monsters. I had to stop Ron from drawing his wand and hexing the lot of them.”

“It was a close call there at the end,” Ron offered in an attempt to lighten the mood, but it fell a little short as Harry just allowed his closest friends to comfort him.

“I’m fine,” Harry said softly. “They are taking Pucey to St. Mungo’s. That’s where we are all headed.”

They waited with the same quiet readiness they had shown during the war, prepared to listen or follow his lead. When nothing came, Hermione asked, “What can we do?”

Shaking his head, Harry sighed, “Go to the Cauldron. Assure Hannah I am okay. I have to be with the team right now, though, and it is already late.”

“We are on it,” Ron said, before Hermione could even consider launching an inquisition into his relationship with the blonde pub owner.

“Thanks, guys, for coming to the match, and taking care of this,” Harry said with a tight smile, “One less thing to worry about.”

“Worry about nothing else except rest,” Hermione said, “And Pucey. I never liked the man, but no one deserved what happened out there tonight.”

Ron nodded, looking quite serious, “Apparating through the wards was some trick, mate. Hermione and I tried to follow right behind you, thinking you had broken them completely, but we didn’t even make it a few feet.”

“It was desperate,” Harry admitted, his voice rasping. “I didn’t think about the wards until I was already through. Just… go to Hannah, and then get some rest, okay? I’ll send you my Patronus with an update when I get back to my flat.”

Hermione’s expression softened, her gaze lingering on his face with a silent, piercing concern that made him look away. The witch threw her arms around him one last time, and without another word, stepped back, pulling Ron with her as they turned toward the exit.

Harry stood motionless for a heartbeat, the corridor’s silence amplifying the distant, hollow thud of his heart. He turned and saw Cho waiting at the edge of the wards, beyond which they could Apparate. He offered her a small nod, and together they slipped into a quiet departure. The cold night air bit at his skin—a stark, sobering welcome to the grim journey ahead to St. Mungo’s.

.o.

The team had been sitting on the private floor of St. Mungo’s for hours, the oppressive silence of the corridor broken only by the rhythmic, distant hum of magical monitoring charms. It was an unmarked floor closed to the public, reserved just for high-profile patients, such as celebrities, athletes, and politicians. The doors were reinforced with top-tier privacy wards. According to Hippocrates Smethwyck, the healer in charge, the section had been added after the war.

The air on the top level lacked the usual frantic energy of the lower levels; instead, it felt heavy with the collective exhaustion of the Puddlemere United roster. The team was scattered across the waiting-room chairs and benches—some staring blankly at the floor, others pacing the narrow hall with a restless, nervous energy.

Harry sat in a corner, his back against the cool stone wall, watching as a senior healer occasionally emerged from Pucey’s room. Every time the door clicked open, the entire team would go rigid, searching the healer’s expression for any sign of Pucey’s condition. Despite the luxury of the private floor, the atmosphere remained grim. The reality of the attack in the stands, the press conference’s hostility, and the sheer physical toll of the seven-hour match finally caught up with them. Most of the team was fighting to keep their eyes open, but Harry remained fixed on the door, waiting for news.

Coach Deverell, who had been in the room from the time of their arrival, came out at last looking more relaxed than Harry had seen him all day. He scanned the room, his gaze landing on Harry for a long moment, before shifting back to his team, “Things are looking better. They finally managed to administer the counter-curse for a bone-twisting hex that was causing him the most pain. He is going to make a full recovery, and I can confidently say he will physically be able to play next weekend.”

It was left unsaid, but Harry knew the kind of damage an attack like this could do to someone’s psyche. They could hardly blame Pucey if he needed time to come to terms with what happened.

“You all go get some rest,” Deverell demanded in a no-nonsense tone. “Pucey will be at practice on Monday. Whether or not he is able to practice is another thing, but you can all fawn over him then.” The team murmured their gratitude at the news, but before Harry could rise to his feet, the older man turned to him directly, “Potter… Pucey wants a word before you go.”

Harry nodded, and glanced at Oliver, who was still sitting closest to Pucey’s door, and his captain offered him a nod of approval as Harry rose to his feet and moved towards Pucey’s private room.

The walk to the room felt longer than it should have. Harry’s footsteps echoed against the polished marble, a stark contrast to the low murmurs of his teammates left behind in the waiting area. He reached the door to Pucey’s private room and paused, his hand hovering over the handle. He braced himself; he had faced dark wizards and monsters, but seeing a teammate—a former rival—laid low by a mindless, violent mob hit a different kind of nerve.

With a slow breath, Harry pushed the door open.

Soft amber healing charms bathed the private room in a sanctuary-like glow. The scent of dittany and antiseptic was thick in the air. Pucey was propped up on a bed of snowy white linens, looking startlingly small against the dark wood of the headboard. His usual composed, smirking expression was gone, replaced by a pallor that made the dark circles under his eyes stand out sharply. His team robes were folded neatly on a nearby chair, revealing the bandages wrapping his torso.

He wasn’t asleep, though. His gaze was fixed on the ceiling, his breathing steady but shallow. As the door shut behind Harry, Pucey’s gaze flickered to the side, landing on him. He didn’t offer one of his typical jabs or competitive remarks. He just held Harry’s stare for a long moment, the silence between them heavy with the weight of the day—the blood, the shouting, and the chilling realization of how close he had come to the end.

Harry took a cautious step forward, stopping at the foot of the bed. “They said you were resting.”

Pucey’s jaw tightened, a ghost of his old arrogance surfacing for a fleeting second before fading back into exhaustion. “Resting is for people who don’t have a match to prepare for next week,” he rasped, his voice rougher than Harry remembered. He gestured weakly with a bandaged hand toward the chair beside his bed. “Sit, Potter. I didn’t ask you to watch me stare at the ceiling.”

Harry moved tentatively towards the open chair by Pucey’s bedside, the one Coach Deverell had undoubtedly been sitting in for hours. Taking a seat, he held Pucey’s gaze, and the man grunted in pain, attempting to sit up. Harry was about to protest, but the glare from his teammate stopped him, “I don’t need your sympathy, Potter. I am alright. The pain is going to fade, and the healers have said there won’t be any lasting damage.”

“I hate hospitals,” Harry mumbled, folding his arms over his chest, leaning back into the chair.

“That makes two of us,” Pucey said, a little more softly than Harry expected, but he didn’t back down from sitting up. His groans filled the room as he forced himself upright to Harry’s eye level, “I am not such an idiot that I can’t admit you saved my ass out there tonight, Potter.”

Harry let the admission settle and held Pucey’s gaze, sensing there was more to come. The silence lingered, and Pucey continued, “I haven’t been kind to you, and Merlin knows, we didn’t get along in school, or run in the same crowds, but you didn’t let that stop you. You put yourself at risk. You stopped me from really hurting myself and kept the spells from hitting me. I’d offer my thanks, but I know it wouldn’t mean shit.”

Harry scoffed, grinning, “It wouldn’t hurt to hear.”

Pucey returned the grin but immediately coughed, wheezing in pain. “Well, let’s skip that part. I want to put it all behind us. We are teammates. Tonight you proved to me, to the team, and maybe even to the world, that the game is bigger than any of us. If I can’t get on that train, then I don’t belong in this league, and certainly not this team.”

Harry held his gaze, a flicker of hope swelling in his chest as Pucey continued. “If we want to win this league—if we want to prove to those bastards that politics don’t define us as people or as a team—we have to work together. We have to win… and that’s only going to happen if we bury this.”

Harry leaned back, “So butterbeers at the Cauldron tomorrow?”

“Not bloody likely,” Pucey snorted, grinning again, before another painful wheeze interrupted him. Pucey leaned back against the bed and offered Harry his hand. Harry looked at it for a long moment before taking it into his own. “You’re alright, Potter. You gave it your all tonight. We all did, and we will get those bastards next time. As mad as I am that I ended up here, I am way more pissed that we lost. I may need a few days before I’m getting to the pitch as early as you again, but I’m all in. I have to be after tonight.”

Their handshake lingered before Harry released him—a silent pact that went beyond Quidditch. It wasn’t an apology for the years of rivalry, nor a promise of instant friendship, but it was a foundation. As Pucey closed his eyes, exhaustion finally overtaking him, the sharp, defensive mask Harry had always known seemed to slip, revealing the shaken young man beneath.

“Get some rest,” Harry said softly, backing toward the door. Pucey didn’t answer, his eyes already closed, his breathing settling into a slow rhythm. Harry stepped out into the quiet corridor, where the magic of the hospital hummed against his skin. The rest of the team was still gathered nearby, their collective anxiety shifting into a dull, bone-deep fatigue.

When they saw him emerge, a few heads turned, waiting for a silent verdict. Harry offered a small, tired nod, and the tension in the room seemed to dissipate just a fraction.

As he walked toward the hospital elevator, the sheer weight of the day settled firmly onto his shoulders—the loss, the chaotic press, and the lingering bitter acceptance of what the coming days would bring. Tomorrow would undoubtedly bring inquiries, scathing headlines, and the long road to proving they could be the best team in the league. Yet, for the first time since the whistle blew that afternoon, the isolation that had haunted him felt lighter. The team had walked into the fire together, and somehow, they had come out the other side. Tomorrow would be another fight, but as he reached the Apparition point, Harry knew one thing for certain: he wouldn’t be fighting it alone.