A Star Is Born Chapter 21 (Patreon)

(A/N) I want to give you guys a little analytical note here. Hannah represents more than just some woman who ended up in his bed. She represents what normality could have been like. If Harry were satisfied with being a good Quidditch player—losing the occasional game and stopping on the brink of greatness—the two could’ve been together. At this point in his career, though, he is prepared to dedicate everything to it. I am sure you all noticed in the last chapter, and maybe even before that, that Harry is falling into different vices to help himself cope. This is all intentional. Everything has a purpose! Hang tough, and stay tuned. Double update this week!

Chapter 21

The wind was the only thing that made sense. Up here, fifty feet above the Quidditch pitch, the air was sharp, biting, and honest. Harry didn’t care that the sun had barely crested the horizon, or that the dew still lay heavy on the grass below. He was already banking hard, his broom cutting through the morning stillness with a low, aggressive hum. The defeat from the weekend hung on him like lead armour, heavy and suffocating, but in the air he could force it into something manageable. He wasn't practicing for Wood or the team; he was flying to outpace the ghost of his own failure, pushing his speed until the wind drowned out the doubt in his head. Every dive, every sudden turn, was a deliberate, violent act to try to forget both the loss on the pitch and what had happened at the Cauldron the day before.

Only Oliver had arrived so far, his silhouette a familiar, rigid fixture against the morning sky. The two did not partake in their usual morning positional drills; there was no structured practice of tactical manoeuvres or coordinated defences today. Instead, they flew in tandem, both of them trying to punish the loss out of themselves in the cold morning air.  They streaked aggressively across the pitch, racing back and forth in a grueling display of endurance, before whipping their brooms around with violent, jerking motions and doing it again.

The rhythmic repetition was the only thing that kept the intrusive thoughts of the weekend's defeat at bay. Oliver, ever the perfectionist, seemed to be using the physical strain to punish himself for every goal that had slipped past his guard, while Harry flew to drown out the lingering shame of the loss. This wasn't the calculated, early-morning dedication they had shown during the preseason, when Coach Deverell had praised their standard of work before the rest of the team even arrived. This was raw and unrefined, a stark contrast to the "aerial artistry" Harry had displayed during his debut victory against the Tutshill Tornados. There were no victory laps today, no high-fives with Wood as they linked up in the air. There was only the biting wind, the aggressive hum of wood through air, and the silent understanding between a captain and his Seeker that neither of them believed they had been good enough.

Harry had read the Puddlemere Press when he had arrived at the facility that morning. Rex had been holding a copy for him and had promised it wasn’t as bad as the young star might have expected. Thankfully, the man had been right; the publication had mostly blamed the Montrose supporters for allowing the match to descend into chaos, arguing that such scenes had no place in the game. They even praised Harry and the rest of the team for a hard-fought match. The reporter expressed confidence that they would secure a win against Falmouth in the coming week, when the game returned to their home pitch.

It was a relief to have another member of the press on his side. He made a mental note to remember her name. Compared with the reporters who seemed more interested in his downfall, Brooklyn felt like someone worth knowing. 

The faith of the Puddlemere Press helped spur him forward that morning. The fans had not turned their backs on him after one loss, and he was grateful. He would need the support of the fanbase if he was going to become the kind of player he believed could reach the top of the league.

As Harry and Oliver continued to streak across the pitch, a new arrival in the stands forced Harry to bank sharply, his heart hammering against his ribs. Adrian Pucey sat in the front row, arms folded tightly across his chest, his jaw set with unmistakable frustration. Harry exchanged a glance with Oliver before diving toward the ground, their brooms whistling as they levelled out just feet from where the Chaser sat.

Pucey looked worse for wear, pale and stiff with the posture of someone whose body was still putting itself back together, but his eyes remained sharp as they moved across the empty stadium. He didn't look like a man who belonged in a hospital bed.

“You’re three days ahead of schedule, Pucey,” Oliver said, his voice echoing in the vast, quiet space as they dismounted. “The Healers were explicit. No flying, no heavy exertion.”

Pucey stood up, ignoring the way he winced, and hobbled down to the pitch floor. “I'm not here to fly,” he shot back, his voice rough but devoid of its usual caustic edge. “I'm here to ensure we are ready for what’s coming. If I'm benched for the next seventy-two hours, that’s fine, but I’m not sitting in a flat while you two carry the weight. I’m part of this squad, and I’m going to make damn sure we’re ready to dismantle Falmouth this weekend.”

Harry studied him for a moment. The arrogance that usually defined Pucey had been replaced by a singular, focused intensity. It was the same desperation Harry had felt in the air—the need to prove that they were more than the disaster the Daily Prophet and others were painting them to be. Pucey wasn't here to fight; he was here to work.

“Well, usually we don’t just fly back and forth on the pitch,” Harry said, trying to keep the mood light. He descended slowly, the morning air biting at his skin as he hovered just above the grass where Pucey stood. “It’s a bit aimless, even for us.”

Oliver agreed at once, his knuckles white against his broom handle as he touched down beside Harry. “Just working out some frustration,” he admitted, his voice rough. He looked at Pucey, his eyes scanning the Chaser’s stiff posture, likely remembering the way the man had looked limp and pale on a medical cot just forty-eight hours prior. “We weren’t expecting you to be upright, let alone at the stadium.”

“I was determined,” Pucey admitted, his gaze drifting upward toward the hoops where he had spent his career scoring goals before the marathon match against the Magpies had turned into a battlefield. “Considering the last time I was on my broom I was plummeting through the air, I am a little anxious to get back up there and act like I know what I am doing.”

He reached back, gingerly touching the small of his back where the jagged red hex had struck him. The memory of the organized hostility from the stands seemed to flicker in his eyes, replacing the usual sneering disdain with a raw, focused intensity. Harry watched him and understood the impulse immediately. Pucey wanted distance from the loss just as badly as Harry did. 

“The Puddlemere Press is on our side, at least,” Harry offered, grounding his broom as he stepped toward his teammate. “Brooklyn, one of the reporters I've been talking to, wrote a piece praising the team. They aren’t all looking for a scandal.”

Pucey gave a short, sharp nod, the gesture lacking its usual arrogance. “Then we give them a win against Falmouth,” he said firmly, his voice echoing in the vast, quiet stadium that felt less like a sanctuary and more like a proving ground. “If the league wants to talk about ‘battlefield tactics,’ let’s show them what that actually looks like when we’re coordinated.”

“I am going to make some adjustments to my game,” Harry admitted. “I am going to need the Beaters' help, though. I need more aggressive fliers if I'm going to make this work.”

Smirking at this, Adrian crossed his arms. “If you need someone to rough you up in the air, Potter, say no more. I’m in.”

Oliver and Harry both snorted at this, but neither said anything further as they surveyed the pitch. Long days lay ahead if they were going to be ready for what was coming, and the rest of the squad seemed to understand that the moment they began filtering out of the locker rooms.

Their usual morning banter was noticeably absent. The air on the pitch had turned quiet and severe. Practice wasn't a game that morning. Coach Deverell didn’t even need to shout instructions. The intensity that Harry and Oliver had been radiating seemed to infect the rest of the team, turning every drill into a collision of wills.

Harry and Cho raced to every Snitch like their lives depended on it, and he was pleased that she was playing more aggressively than she ever had against him. She bumped and jarred him several times without being prompted to do so. She was quickly proving that she wanted his trust as much as she wanted to beat him. 

It was a blur of high-velocity manoeuvres and bone-jarring contact. Beaters scorched the air with heavy Bludgers, and Chasers forced passes through defensive lines tighter and more aggressive than anything they had faced since the season started. There was no room for error, and certainly no tolerance for the sloppy, disjointed play that had haunted them the week before.

Harry had explained to Jason and Conner what he wanted, and together the three raced up and down the pitch chasing a Snitch. The two larger men took turns bumping Harry as he focused on trying to beat Cho to the golden ball while she flew unimpeded. He lost almost every time, but the gap narrowed with each attempt.

By the end of practice, Harry really did feel the physical fatigue, and when the final whistle finally cut through the biting wind, he leaned forward against his broom, nearly folding in two. The team landed in near silence, chests heaving, bodies bruised, but eyes alight with a newfound clarity.

Coach Deverell didn’t speak of the loss. Instead, he spoke of his pride in the team, and the hopelessness the Falcons would feel when they faced them on Saturday. When the team broke, Harry glanced at Oliver, who appeared satisfied with their efforts for the day and thumped him on the shoulder. “Get some rest, Harry. We did good today. We all did.”

Harry didn't linger. He wiped the grime from his face, offered a nod to his teammates, and headed straight for the locker room to change. He was glad to be done for the day, and the solitude of his flat suddenly felt like the only sanctuary he had left.

.o.

With a glass of firewhisky in one hand and a mountain of letters in front of him, Harry finally began working through his mail. He was months behind at this point and knew many of his friends and other well-wishers would have reached out.

The flat was quiet save for the soft ticking of the clock above the fireplace and the occasional crackle from the small fire he'd lit more out of habit than necessity. Moonlight spilled across the coffee table, turning the pile of envelopes into a patchwork of cream parchment and colourful stationery.

He took a sip of firewhisky.

Then he reached for the first letter.

Most were kind.

Congratulations on the draft, mate.

Saw your photograph in the Prophet. Knew you'd make it one day.

Proud of you, Harry. Don't forget to sleep.

That one had been from Alicia Spinnet, an old Gryffindor teammate.

Harry smiled despite himself and set it aside.

Another sip.

Dear Harry,

I thought I'd write and let you know that McGonagall has made me Gryffindor Quidditch Captain.

I haven't the faintest idea what possessed her.

Actually, I do. Everyone else graduated.

Still, I've been thinking about you quite a bit lately. Seeing you drafted to Puddlemere was brilliant, even if it makes me feel terribly old despite only being two years younger than you.

If you ever have the time, I'd love to pick your brain about being a captain. Better yet, if you're ever near Hogwarts and can spare an afternoon, perhaps we could have a fly around the pitch. I promise not to ask for too many autographs.

Take care of yourself, Harry.

Demelza

Harry smiled at this one, set it aside, and knew he would be writing to his old teammate. Maybe he could convince some of the others on Puddlemere to make a day to go to Hogwarts. A fun day at Hogwarts could be a morale boost. He would speak with Oliver and write to Daniel Deverell about it.

Another sip.

Harry,

Congratulations.

I saw your name in the paper and thought, "Of course Potter ends up playing professional Quidditch."

I still remember our DA practices. You somehow managed to teach an entire room of people while looking as though you'd rather be flying.

Funny, really.

Anyway, I hope Puddlemere realizes what they've got.

Try not to make catching the Snitch look too easy.

— Michael

Harry grinned, refilling his glass as he thought of his old friends from the DA. He would need to get tickets for Michael Corner, and Anthony Goldstein, who he could already see was his next letter.

Harry,

A professional Seeker.

I confess, I always assumed you'd end up teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts or arresting dark wizards for a living.

Then again, perhaps chasing a tiny golden object at dangerous speeds is more your style.

Congratulations, mate.

The world seems determined to remember us all for the war. It's nice to see one of us might be remembered for something else as well.

Take care of yourself.

Anthony Goldstein

The letters began to blur together after a while. Former professors. Old schoolmates. A witch he'd once met in Diagon Alley. Well wishes, congratulations, invitations to dinner that had long since passed. The pile on the table slowly shrank. The level in his glass slowly dropped. At some point, he stopped reaching for the firewhisky deliberately. His hand simply seemed to find it between letters.

By the time he reached the bottom of the stack, the room had grown pleasantly warm. Only two envelopes remained, though one had multiple letters. He recognized the handwriting from both immediately. The other two members of his original Quidditch team.

Angelina and Katie.

Harry stared at them both for a long moment. Then he took another drink. Self-consciously, he ignored Angelina’s letters for a moment, having the feeling that something heavy was coming, and decided to enjoy peace for a moment longer as he read Katie’s note.

Harry,

I saw the draft announcement and nearly spilled my tea.

Puddlemere United! Not bad for the scrawny eleven-year-old who didn't know the difference between a Quaffle and a Bludger.

I know everything probably feels rather mad right now, but don't forget to enjoy it. You earned this.

You should know, I am working on a charity project that I think you would be really interested in. Don’t worry, I won’t pester you for your Galleons, but I would appreciate any of your support, even if it’s just putting in a good word for me in the press. I’d love to discuss it in person sometime, so write to me, and we can meet for lunch. I do expect you to buy for an old friend, though, so maybe I will steal just a few of your Galleons!

And if Oliver Wood starts acting as though he's personally responsible for your entire career, please remind him that the rest of us taught you a thing or two on the pitch as well.

Congrats again.

With love,

Katie

It was a heartwarming letter from Katie that made him smile. He almost wished he had saved it for last. Katie had always had the biggest heart of anyone on the team, and Harry knew the attack in her seventh year had taken a long time to leave behind.  He hoped she was doing well and set her letter aside, resolving to write back and make time for one of his oldest friends.

His smile faded when his eyes moved to Angelina’s letters. The dread that followed felt ridiculous. They'd been friends for years. Angelina had practically dragged him onto the team during their fifth year when everything in his world felt upside down. She'd expressed her disappointment in him when he was kicked off the team by Umbridge for things he couldn’t control, but easily forgave him and celebrated with him when they won the cup. He remembered once she had threatened to hex him for missing practice because he'd been in the hospital wing. Yet, she'd also been wearing black and white when Montrose beat him. She had been on the opposing team whose supporters had attacked one of his teammates.

He turned the envelope over in his hands.

A small part of him still couldn't reconcile the image of Angelina Johnson celebrating beneath a shower of Magpies confetti while he zoomed across the pitch trying to save his teammate’s life.

The firewhisky burned pleasantly down his throat. Only then did he break the seal. Harry scanned the first letter and knew this one must’ve been written right after draft day.

Harry,

Puddlemere United.

I can't decide whether to congratulate you or remind you that I spent years telling everyone you'd go professional.

Actually, I'll do both.

Congratulations. And I was right.

I know this all probably feels rather mad at the moment. It should. Enjoy it anyway. The papers will make a fuss, people will ask ridiculous questions, and everyone you've ever met will suddenly remember that they're your oldest friend. Ignore most of it.

Just remember why you started flying in the first place. Also, if we play each other, I reserve the right to cheer when you miss the Snitch.

Proud of you, Potter.

— Angelina

Harry grinned, but it faded quickly. He should have kept up with his mail. He had undoubtedly left Katie, Demelza, and Angelina all waiting for replies, but he was caught in the hustle and bustle of trying to be with Hannah or Susan. This shouldn’t have waited this long. With growing dread, he turned to the final envelope from Angelina. He took a sharp breath and opened the last letter from his friend and former captain.

Harry,

I've rewritten this letter three times because I couldn't decide whether to write as your friend or as someone who was standing on the opposite pitch.

I think I’ve settled on a little bit of both, so prepare for my usual dose of tough love.

First, about the match—you'll hate hearing this now, but every Seeker loses. Every one of us. Professional Quidditch has a nasty habit of reminding you that you're not invincible. The first loss always feels personal. It isn't.

Now, the important bit.

What happened after the match was appalling.

I don't care what the papers are saying. I was there. I saw the panic in the stands and on the pitch. I saw Pucey go down. I saw you move before anyone else did.

Maybe you shouldn't have gone into the crowd. Maybe there were a dozen better ways to handle it. That's the sort of thing people with the luxury of hindsight love to discuss.

But I know you, Harry.

You didn't charge into those stands because you lost a Quidditch match. You did it because someone got hurt. The Prophet will say whatever it likes. The League will conduct its investigation. Half the country will have an opinion.

Let them. I know the look you had on your face. It was the same one you always had when someone else was in danger.

Take care of yourself, all right?

And for what it's worth, when we beat you again this season, I'd prefer it not to be because you've spent months trying to carry the entire wizarding world on your shoulders. Good luck against the Falcons this weekend. I’ll always be cheering for you and Ollie when we aren’t on opposite sides of the pitch.

— Angelina

Letting out the breath he had been holding, Harry placed the parchment on the table. He didn't move for a long time. The fire crackled, a sharp, popping sound. Harry began to thrum his fingers on the table as he stared at his glass of firewhisky. He could not have explained why, but he felt exposed. He took another drink, the burn doing nothing to settle the agitation vibrating beneath his skin.

“I’d prefer it not to be because you’ve spent months trying to carry the entire wizarding world on your shoulders.”

Rising to his feet, Harry moved to the window, peering out at the lights of the city below. His mind moved through the choices he had made over the last few days, leaving the Cauldron and deciding to push his game further. He was close to something. He could feel it, like a Snitch fluttering just beyond his reach.  But the cost was piling up. His friends were already becoming names on parchment, people he read about but couldn't seem to find the time to actually be with. He had a glass of firewhisky in one hand and an empty flat around him.

He thought about writing back. He should. He owed Demelza a response, and Katie deserved more than a mental "thank you." But the very idea of sitting down to pen a coherent thought felt like an insurmountable labor. It would require honesty. It would require admitting that professional life looked nothing like the clean ascent the magazines had promised. 

He turned to the scouting journal Ron had helped put together. It had a brief rundown of every Seeker he would face this season, and his eyes narrowed as he began reading about Cooper Townes and several other prominent Falmouth players. According to Ron, the Falcons were fast, but they were predictable. They relied on speed instead of brute force, something Harry was confident his team could exploit.

"Battlefield tactics," he muttered to the empty room.

He wouldn't play their game. He wouldn't just be faster; he would be surgical. He would make the game so tight, so controlled, that the Falcons wouldn't even realize they were losing until he had the Snitch in his hand. He would dismantle them. He would dismantle the memory of the Magpies. He would dismantle the doubt currently clawing at his insides.

He poured the last of the bottle into his glass, ignoring the warning bell in his head that told him he’d had enough. He wasn't looking for sleep anymore. Sleep was just a pause in the work, and he didn't have time for pauses. He had a reputation to rebuild, a league to conquer, and a ghost—his own failure—to outrun.

He sat back down, the quill poised over the journal. The room was silent, the ticking of the clock the only rhythm he had left. For a moment, he thought of Hannah, of what it might be like to close the curtains, lock the door, and just be a person for a few hours. Then he looked at the journal and the thought vanished, replaced by the golden blur waiting for him in his head.