A Star Is Born Chapter 20 (Patreon)

Chapter 20

The silence of his flat was the loudest thing Harry had heard since the war ended. After the roar of the crowd, the chaotic, sharp-tongued press, and the hum of St. Mungo’s, the stillness felt aggressive. Harry slumped onto his sofa, letting his gear—heavy with the day's grime—slide to the floor in a heap. He didn’t bother with the lights. He just sat in the dim moonlight filtering through the window, his head in his hands.

His mind kept looping back to Pucey’s hand in his. It was a bizarre, fragile bridge built over a chasm of years in which the two had openly stood against one another. It wasn’t just the Quidditch rivalry between Gryffindor and Slytherin; the political divide had been there as well.

For the first time, he didn't feel like the Boy-Who-Lived or Pucey’s old Gryffindor rival. He just felt like a teammate. But as the adrenaline finally ebbed, it left behind a hollow, aching fatigue that seeped into his bones. He knew the peace wouldn't last; the owls would come in the morning, and the newspapers would dissect his every movement. But for tonight, he allowed himself to simply be a man who had survived a war zone on a Saturday night that was supposed to have been about Quidditch. 

The clock in the kitchen drew his attention as midnight arrived. Harry knew he needed to get his rest, but he felt restless, skittish even, from the adrenaline of the night. A small mountain of unopened post lay scattered across the table nearby, ordinary envelopes mixed among a few parchment letters tied with ribbon, their wax seals glinting faintly in the moonlight.

Harry briefly considered opening some of it to distract himself from the evening, but instead his gaze settled back on the kitchen. The cupboard over the sink was slightly ajar. Beyond it, he could just make out the neck of a bottle.

He rose slowly. The floorboards creaked beneath his feet. In the kitchen, moonlight spilled across the counter in pale silver bars. A dish scrubber enchanted by Hermione was quietly washing the same plate for perhaps the sixth time, utterly oblivious to the fact that it had been clean for hours.

Ignoring the plate, Harry reached into the cupboard for the bottle of Firewhisky. He stared at the label for a long time. Then, with a small twist of his hand, he broke the seal. The smell was smoky and sharp. He poured a measure into a glass that had been sitting by the sink. The Firewhisky caught the moonlight, glowing like amber. He took a sip. Warmth bloomed immediately in his chest. Outside, somewhere beyond the curtains, a siren wailed through Muggle London and then faded into the distance.

A problem for another person, Harry thought grimly as he took another drink. The flat seemed to exhale as Harry carried the glass back to the sofa and sat heavily. The Firewhisky rested warm in his hand, its amber light trembling with each slight movement. He looked around at the strange collection of his life—electric lamps beside spellbooks, trainers kicked beneath a table that also held Floo powder, parchment resting atop old Muggle magazines. Two worlds. His worlds. Tonight, neither world would call for him until morning. He drank again, chasing not oblivion but something smaller and sadder. A few hours without thinking. A few hours when sleep might finally be stronger than the memories threatening to consume him. 

Harry wasn't sure when one glass had become two, or when he had stopped pouring them properly altogether. The Firewhisky burned less with each swallow. The warmth in his chest spread through his limbs, heavy and comforting, blurring the sharp corners of the evening. The stadium lights dimmed in his memory. The sound of reporters shouting questions softened. Even the image of Pucey in the hospital bed seemed to recede, as though someone had mercifully drawn a curtain across it.

For the first time all night, he could breathe without feeling like something was sitting on his ribs. So he drank again. And again. The bottle grew lighter in his hand. The room grew softer around the edges. The guilt, the fear, the anger—all of it became pleasantly distant, floating somewhere beyond the walls of the flat. The relief was immediate. That was the dangerous thing.

When he finally lurched to his feet, the floor tilted beneath him. He caught himself on the arm of the sofa and let out a quiet, humorless laugh. He couldn't remember deciding to go to bed. He only knew he wanted to stay in this warm, numb place for as long as he could. He carried the bottle with him down the dark hall.

The little Firebolt still circled the bookshelf. An enchanted teacup sat patiently on the kitchen counter. The clock that had originally alerted him to midnight now read 2:00 a.m., but Harry scarcely noticed. He set the bottle on his bedside table, kicked off one shoe and then the other, and collapsed onto the mattress fully dressed. As sleep finally pulled at him, his last coherent thought wasn't about Pucey, the match, or tomorrow's headlines. It was simpler than that. At least this feels better.

.o.

The morning light crept into his eyes like an accusation.

Harry woke with a sharp, ragged gasp, his hand instantly flying to where his wand would have been, had he not left it in the kitchen the night before. His chest rose and fell in quick, shallow bursts, the memory of the spell fire still clawing at the edges of his consciousness.

His vision swam immediately as the previous night’s drinking caught up with him, nausea rolling through his stomach. He pushed himself up, his muscles screaming in protest from the seven hours of Quidditch the night before, and swung his legs out of bed. The nausea surged again, drawing a groan from him. He was nearly naked. He had apparently managed to strip down to his boxers sometime during the night, though he had no memory of doing it. Yet as he stood in the middle of his bedroom, he could still feel weight pressing against his shoulders.

He couldn't shake the sensation that he was still wearing his gear from the night before. It was an eerie phantom weight—the familiar drag of Quidditch pads against his shoulders and thick leather binding his gear to his body. He stood there for a long moment, waiting for the feeling to dissipate. It didn't. It was as if his body had absorbed the armor of the game, and while the alcohol from the night before may have been a brief remedy, reality had returned.

It was as if his body was refusing to acknowledge that the match was over. Perhaps the loss had left him feeling as though there was unfinished business. As Harry attempted to reconcile the emotion, however, he wasn’t sure whether it came from the loss, the attack, or the weight of what would follow in the press.

He walked to the window and pulled back the curtain. Below, the Muggle city was moving, completely oblivious to the trauma of the previous night and the fractured world of its magical counterpart, but Harry could already see the Daily Prophet on his patio. The phantom weight on his shoulders tightened, a cold, crushing reminder that while the match was over, the battle—the one fought with ink, paper, and public opinion—was only just beginning.

Harry opened the door to his patio, and the headline caught his eye at once.

SCANDAL AT THE PITCH: POTTER’S VIOLENT OUTBURST MARS MAGPIES VICTORY

Harry internally twitched as his hands began to curl tightly around the paper, his eyes scanning the front page. 

The Puddlemere United versus Montrose Magpies match, anticipated as one of the season's premier seeker matchups, concluded in absolute disgrace last night. While the Magpies rightfully celebrated a hard-fought victory, the headline of the day is not the sport but the dangerous and unhinged conduct of Puddlemere's own rising star, Harry Potter.

After being thoroughly outplayed by Magpies seeker Cormac MaCloud—a humbling defeat that clearly shattered the ego of the "Rookie Phenom"—Potter chose to abandon the constraints of the game entirely. When Puddlemere Chaser Adrian Pucey was struck by a stray hex, Potter did not seek assistance or appeal to the referees. Instead, he treated the stadium as his personal battlefield.

In a horrifying display of aggression, the "Boy-Who-Lived" abandoned his broom and Apparated directly into the stands among peaceful, albeit vocal, fans. Witnesses describe a scene of cold, calculated brutality. Rather than attempting to de-escalate, Potter unleashed high-level combat magic on six defenseless spectators, disarming and binding them with a ruthlessness that suggests his experience during the war has left him incapable of functioning in civil society.

Though Potter had the audacity to claim he was "protecting" a teammate during a subsequent defiant press conference, the optics were damning. Surrounded by Puddlemere teammates who looked as uncomfortable as they were complicit, Potter's explanation fell on deaf ears.

The League has rightfully launched an emergency investigation into Puddlemere's organization. The question on fans' minds is simple: how long will the wizarding community continue to tolerate Potter's battlefield tactics on a professional pitch? If yesterday's carnage proves anything, it is that the "Hero of the War" has become the villain of the sport. The era of gentlemanly Quidditch is dead—and Harry Potter is the one who killed it.

Details on the match, page 5.

Details of Potter's mental health crisis, page 9.

— Tracey Davis

The ink on the page seemed to shimmer with a malicious intent as Harry finished reading the article for the third time, the phrase villain of the sport searing into his mind. A low, dangerous hum began to vibrate in the air around him, a physical manifestation of the magic he usually kept under such tight control. Suddenly, a spark ignited in the very center of the page. A small, hungry fire began to consume the lies, making the Daily Prophet crumble and blacken in his hands. He didn't drop it; he watched with a grim, seething fury as the flames licked toward his fingers, feeling the heat but refusing to flinch. Harry finally allowed the smoldering cinders to fall to the floor, and with a cool, sharp wave of his hand, he banished the fire and the remains of the paper into nonexistence.

The flat, usually his sanctuary of silence, felt like it was closing in on him. Harry drew a deep, ragged breath and tried to rein in his temper. It was becoming increasingly difficult to keep the lid on the pressure cooker of his emotions over the last twenty-four hours. The phantom weight of his Quidditch gear felt heavier than ever, a crushing reminder that the night before had not ended cleanly. As his control slipped, the glassware in the kitchen began to clink together with a frantic, metallic sound, and the floorboards beneath his bare feet began to rumble and shake. A heavy antique lamp on the side table wobbled dangerously, mirroring the unstable state of the man who had survived a war.

If they want a villain, I’ll give them one on the pitch. Harry’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the spot where the Daily Prophet had just vanished. The Wizarding World, the Press, the League—they all seemed intent on painting him in this light, ignoring the fact that he had intervened to protect Adrian Pucey from a ruthless, unprovoked attack. If they wanted to label his defensive magic as brutality, then he would finally stop trying to fit into the sportsmanlike mold they demanded of him.

He could feel the raw power humming beneath his skin, the same volatile energy that was currently rattling the glassware in his kitchen and making the floorboards tremble. It was a style of play he had suppressed since joining the league, the antithesis of the controlled finesse he had favored at Hogwarts. He had spent months honing that precision with Wood, developing a fluidity built on reading the game. But that version of Harry Potter was apparently a hero they no longer wanted. 

Now, he considered a more vicious approach. He could use his sheer will and unparalleled endurance—the same stamina that had seen him through a seven-hour ordeal the night before—to play the roughest game the League had ever seen. He would no longer avoid the "mid-air mollywops" or the aggressive physical interference that seekers like Ryan Jackman had favored. Instead, he would become the aggressor. He would turn every match into a battlefield, using his combat-honed reflexes to overpower his opponents with a ruthlessness that mirrored the press’s accusations.

The Puddlemere fan base, already known for their raucous and dedicated support, would likely love this transformation. They had cheered when he confronted the spectators who had hexed Pucey, and they would undoubtedly roar with approval at a seeker who refused to be bullied. However, Harry knew this path would come at a steep cost elsewhere in the Quidditch community. It would alienate the tactical purists and provide even more fuel for reporters like Tracey Davis, who were already calling for his head. But as he stood in the trembling silence of his flat, the phantom weight of his gear pressing down on his bare shoulders, Harry didn't care about public opinion anymore. He hadn’t survived a war only to be crucified by the peace; if the world required a villain to keep its entertainment interesting, he was more than ready to play the part.

.o.

Harry stewed over the Daily Prophet article for most of the morning, the words of Tracey Davis echoing in his mind like a persistent curse. By early Sunday afternoon, the suffocating atmosphere of his flat had become unbearable; the vibrating glassware and trembling floorboards were a constant reminder of his fraying control. Eventually, he decided he needed a familiar face. He would go see Hannah at the Leaky Cauldron.

However, the prospect of walking through Diagon Alley as himself was daunting. He knew that the moment his faded lightning-bolt scar or messy black hair was recognized, he would be descended upon by a public either eager for a confrontation or desperate for a quote. Rather than risk going out as himself, he reached for his wand and performed a series of intricate transfigurations to alter his look. He focused on broadening his jawline, dulling the vibrant green of his eyes to a nondescript hazel, and lengthening his hair into a sandy-blond mane that fell over his forehead, effectively masking the famous scar. Only when he looked in the mirror and saw a stranger staring back did he feel the phantom weight of his Quidditch gear lighten enough for him to step out into the world.

The Cauldron was busier than Harry expected. At first, he thought business was simply booming, but a second look revealed reporters scattered throughout the pub. Several tables of people were even looking around with excited whispers as if they were expecting something big to happen at any moment.

The air inside was thick with the scent of ale and fresh food, the low, persistent hum of speculation drowning out any ambient sounds. Harry watched from the shadows of the entrance, his transfigured hazel eyes scanning the room. He noticed several individuals clutching early editions of the Daily Prophet, the moving image of his own defiant face at the press conference glaring back from the newsprint. It was clear the pub wasn't just full; it was a stakeout. Reporters sat beneath hovering Quick-Quotes Quills like sharks circling in shallow water, waiting for their new villain to make an appearance.

Harry spotted Hannah and her best friend Sally-Anne bustling between the tables, trying to keep up with the afternoon rush. Hannah looked frazzled, her usual warm smile replaced by a mask of professional exhaustion as she dodged a reporter attempting to trip her up with a question about Harry's frequent visits. Sally-Anne was equally occupied, balancing a tray of food while navigating the crowded floor. Even under his disguise, Harry felt a twinge of guilt; his presence, or even the mere rumor of it, was turning their sanctuary into a circus. He moved toward a quiet corner, keeping his head down and his sandy-blond hair draped low over his brow, hoping to catch Hannah's eye without alerting the predators in the room.

The Leaky Cauldron looked much as it had the last several times he'd been there, and somehow that made the chaos feel even more wrong. Hannah's touch was everywhere. The old pub's dim gloom had long since been replaced with warm amber light cast by floating glass globes. The once-cramped seating had been opened into inviting little nooks of deep armchairs and low tables, each arranged to encourage lingering conversations.

Usually, the room hummed with a comforting predictability. The same wizards Harry recognized as regulars occupied their customary stools at the bar, though today they looked distinctly out of place, hunched over their drinks and eyeing the gathered reporters with open discomfort. Others were missing entirely. The young witch from Flourish and Blotts, who was usually curled up in the window seat with a cup of tea and a book, was nowhere to be seen. The pair of Ministry employees who habitually debated Quidditch statistics in the corner nearest the bar was absent as well. Only the hardiest regulars seemed to have braved the spectacle, and even their conversations had been reduced to whispers and uneasy glances toward the entrance.

The outsiders had poisoned the comfort of the Cauldron.

Nearly every available seat was occupied. Quick-Quotes Quills scratched across parchment like insects, and copies of the Daily Prophet lay strewn across tables, his own animated likeness glaring defiantly from the front pages. Harry's chest tightened. The place had become familiar enough that it no longer felt like a pub. It was simply Hannah's pub—a place where nobody expected anything from him, where he could eat a late dinner, listen to the regulars bicker about Quidditch, and be Harry without the rest of the world demanding something from him.

Today, even that refuge felt under siege.

He slipped into an empty seat at the bar, next to Conner, the Irishman he recognized from his previous visits. The man was grumbling about wishing the ‘nosy sods would just go away’. Despite himself, Harry smiled. Then he looked up and found Hannah, who was making her way over with a smile despite all that was happening around her.

“Good afternoon, sir. What can I get you?”

“It’s been a long night, luv. Maybe a Firewhisky,” Harry said, not even attempting to hide his natural voice to the woman he had been spending his time with. Despite the guilt he felt at disrupting her sanctuary, life, and business, he was happy to see her and wanted her to know it was him.

Hannah eyed him for a long moment, and he offered her the smallest of grins, which made her eyes widen in recognition, before she responded. "Actually," she said in the same bright, professional tone, reaching for a clean glass, "you look like someone who could use a cup of tea."

Harry blinked. "I wasn't aware I looked that bad."

"Occupational hazard," she replied smoothly. "I’ve become rather good at reading people."

Conner snorted into his pint. "You certainly do, Hannah. Woman took one look at me this morning and told me I'd had too much to drink."

"You had."

"I had two."

“You had two before noon,” Hannah countered flippantly, a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth.

Conner grumbled something unintelligible and returned to his drink.

Harry found himself smiling again. "I'll take the tea," he said.

"Excellent choice, sir." She busied herself with the teapot behind the bar, though her eyes flicked up to him several times, clearly concerned for his well-being after everything that had happened the night before. He offered her a slight nod, attempting to indicate that he was okay.

"I'm afraid service may be a bit slower than usual today," Hannah said as she set a cup in front of him. "We're unexpectedly busy."

"I noticed," Harry said with an apologetic smile.

“Some people simply don't know when they're overstaying their welcome,” Hannah added testily. “Most of the vultures arrived at about nine this morning.”

Conner let out an approving grunt before opening the pages to a nearby Daily Prophet he had picked up and scoffed, “Tell me you’ve never spent a damn minute around Harry Potter without telling me you’ve never spent a Merlin-damned minute around Harry Potter.”

Hannah shot him a look that Harry interpreted as reassuring. Holding her eyes for a long moment, he was under the impression she was trying to tell him, ‘See, not everyone in the country hates you.’

“Long morning? Or long night?” Hannah asked when she returned, laying a cup of tea in front of him.

He looked up at her. The question was ordinary enough that no one listening would think twice about it. Still, he found himself hesitating. “Both were longer than I'd planned."

Her expression didn't change, but something in her eyes softened. "I'm sorry to hear that."

A reporter's laugh rang out from a nearby table. Both of them glanced toward the sound. When Harry looked back, Hannah was watching him carefully.

"You know," she said lightly. "We missed you last night. You missed a hell of a game. We had Puddlemere on the Wireless."

“I suppose life's been busy. Sorry I missed it,” Harry said, trying to sound sincere. The real meaning was in his tone: he wished he could’ve been with her, but he needed his space.

“It has a habit of doing that,” Hannah said, putting a hand on his shoulder and squeezing softly. There was no accusation in her voice. If anything, she sounded tired.

Conner lifted an eyebrow at the pair for a moment before a brief realization crossed his features, followed by a grin. The man looked prepared to greet him, but Harry looked at the Irishman and shook his head slightly, freezing the man in his tracks. The grin remained on his face, and he offered a tip of his hat before announcing, “I just wish these reporters would mind their damn business and kick rocks!”

Several eyes went to them, but he just waved them off and went back to his paper, leaving Hannah looking exasperated and Harry grinning.

Turning his attention back to Hannah, Harry looked at her properly. Despite the smile, there was a faint shadow beneath her eyes and a tension about her shoulders that hadn't been there a few weeks ago. She looked busy. She looked overwhelmed despite the tough expression she kept firmly in place. She looked like someone who did not need all of Harry’s chaos in her life.

A disturbing thought crossed his mind at that moment. If he really was going to go down this road, the road that was going to make him the best Quidditch player, the villain he needed to be, then he couldn’t drag her name down with him. He couldn’t do that to the Cauldron, the regulars who meant so much to Hannah, or the friend who had stood by him through it all.

For a strange moment, sitting there in another man's face and drinking tea under a disguise that hid him from the world, Harry had the uncomfortable feeling that both of their lives were moving forward so quickly that soon they would only be able to wave at each other from opposite sides of the road.

Instead of dwelling on the thought, Harry tried to force a smile, but it felt brittle. He watched her for another minute, seeing the way the pub’s atmosphere seemed to drain the life from her. She was a point of warmth in a room full of vultures, and he was the reason they had come.

He realized then that he couldn't stay. To sit here, to enjoy the warmth, to bask in the normalcy she provided, was an act of selfishness he could no longer afford. Every minute he spent in her presence was another minute he risked pulling her into the crosshairs of the press. If he was going to become the villain the game demanded, he had to do it alone. 

Harry set the half-finished tea down and stood. The movement was abrupt. Hannah glanced over, her eyebrows knitting together in confusion.

“Leaving already?” she asked, her voice dropping to a softer, disappointed tone.

“I... remembered something I need to take care of,” Harry lied, his voice gravelly. He couldn't meet her gaze, fearing what he might see if he looked too long. “I shouldn't stay.”

“Harry…” she began, her hand lingering near his arm, but he was already turning away.

He didn't look back. He pushed toward the door, but as his palm met the heavy oak, he faltered. His hand slid to the doorframe, his fingers curling into the grain of the wood, gripping it so tightly his knuckles turned white. For a heartbeat, he anchored himself there, a desperate tether to the warmth and the woman behind him. Then, with a jagged intake of breath, he forced his grip to loosen, his fingers trailing reluctantly over the wood before he pushed through into the biting, unfiltered cold of Muggle London. As the door clicked shut behind him, sealing off the warmth of the Cauldron, Harry pulled his coat tighter. He wasn't just leaving a pub; he was loosening another thread that connected him to the man he had been. He walked into the darkness of the alley, the phantom weight of his Quidditch gear still pressing on his shoulders. For tonight, at least, he stopped fighting the direction he had chosen.