A Star Is Born Chapter 22 (Patreon)

Chapter 22

“It’s going to rain on Saturday,” Harry said, folding his arms tightly against his wet uniform. The storm had swallowed Puddlemere by mid-afternoon. Sheets of rain hammered the empty stands while dark clouds rolled so low over the pitch they seemed ready to scrape the goal hoops.

Despite the downpour, Harry refused to look away as he held his ground with his positional coach. “Visibility will be absolutely terrible out there, and I don't exactly have fond memories of rainy matches.”

Oliver immediately spoke up to defend Harry’s past record, pointing out, “That wasn’t as much the rain as it was the presence of the Dementors.”

“Not the point!” Harry shot back through tightly gritted teeth.

“If you boys keep practicing like this, you’re going to get sick.” Coach Robertson crossed his arms stubbornly. The dark goatee beneath his stern expression twitched with annoyance. “And if that happens, neither of you will be able to play this Saturday.”

Most of the team had already been grounded by the storm. Everyone else seemed more than ready to retreat to the warmth of the changing rooms. Harry wasn't.

Last Saturday still sat like lead in Harry's stomach. He knew the Magpies loss hadn't been his fault, but Quidditch rarely cared about fault. The only thing that mattered was whether he was ready the next time.

“He’s a complete lunatic, Coach, just let the sod go out there and get sick,” Pucey said gruffly. It was his first day back on his broom. He had been flying like a madman, and despite looking a little winded, his shot selection had been sharp. “I’ll even volunteer to hit Bludgers at him if Conner and Jason want to call it a day.”

“Absolutely not,” Robertson said before pointing at Pucey. “You are in recovery, and Deverell will have me thrown out of the facility if I let you back out there.”

“Worth a shot,” Pucey grumbled, making Harry shoot him a look.

Pucey had been Harry’s biggest critic this week, but the remarks came with less bite than usual. The man never complimented Harry, but the long stretches where he said nothing often told the young Seeker more about his flying than any praise ever could.

Jason sighed from the corner. “Potter, if you are buying dinner again, I will go out and hit Bludgers at you in the bleeding rain if you insist.”

“I second that,” Conner said, attempting to sound gleeful, though he convinced no one. The rain was absurd, and the wind was becoming increasingly heavy.

The coach looked around the pitch. Not one player was volunteering to leave. Robertson sighed. “I don’t like it.”

“I don’t like losing either, though, Coach.” Cho stepped up beside him without hesitation, rain dripping from the end of her braid. “Harry is right. We should get experience in this if we are going to play in it on Saturday.”

“The Falcons are a proud team,” Oliver said. “Money says they're not sitting inside drinking tea. They'll be flying somewhere.”

“I don’t intend to lose twice,” Harry said with finality. “I'll be here Saturday. Sick or healthy—it doesn't matter. I'll be playing.”

“You know that goes doubly for me, Coach.” Wood added helpfully before moving to stand in front of the Seeker coach, holding his hands up in surrender. “Let the rook run the circuit. The rest of us will just bully him in the air, and make his life difficult. It will be a nice simulation for the match. Harry gets his confidence, we all get weather acclimation, everyone wins, especially us this Saturday.”

Robertson exhaled deeply. “You lot are all mad, but fine, if this is what you want, then let’s fly. Anyone who wants to be logical and go change into warmer clothes is more than welcome to watch from the stands. Potter, Chang, form up and get ready to chase the Snitch.”

Two hours later, the storm had only grown worse.

“Again,” Harry said through gritted teeth.

Oliver sighed. “It’s been a long day, Harry. Cho and everyone else called it an hour ago. Let’s go get some rest and come at it again tomorrow. This rain isn’t doing you any favors.”

Wood may have claimed that his teammates had tapped out, but they were all still floating in the sky. None were pursuing Harry anymore. Conner and Jason still lazily swatted a Bludger in Harry’s direction, but the young star was insatiable.

The relentless rain had turned the Quidditch pitch into a muddy swamp. Every player had pushed themselves beyond exhaustion, battling not only fatigue but the weather itself. As was their habit, Oliver was always ready to run through some extra work for Harry, but it seemed even the Quidditch-obsessed man had his limits.

Harry, soaked to the bone and shivering despite his vigorous efforts, had initially performed flawlessly. The first few golden balls, their tiny wings beating a frantic blur, had been snatched from the air with effortless precision. However, with each successful catch, the Snitch had incrementally increased the speed.

By then, water streamed down Harry's face faster than he could wipe it away, while mist and spray reduced the pitch to little more than shapes and shadows.  Robertson had already released four Snitches. Each had been faster than the last, and Harry had caught those in the first hour. The final Snitch, however, was moving at a near-impossible velocity. It was nothing more than a fleeting golden streak through the gray curtain of rain.

Harry dove, pushing Comet X to its limits. The wood protested with a strained creak as Harry stretched out to catch the golden ball, but he was a fraction of a second too late on his latest attempt. He had missed by inches.

The combination of the Snitch's escalated speed and the zero visibility meant the last crucial catch remained agonisingly out of reach. Frustration tightened his jaw. He did not want to give up. Rain had already cost him one match. He refused to let it cost another.

“I can do this,” Harry promised through gritted teeth.

His hands were trembling on the broom handle. He pretended not to notice.

Oliver sighed as a small golden ball lifted from the chest on the field and disappeared. Without hesitation, Harry shot off again, using what limited visibility he had to his advantage. Shooting through the rain on his Comet, Harry searched for the golden ball.

He hated the feeling. Desperate Seekers chased the Snitch. Great ones trusted it would appear. Right now, he wasn't flying like either. Another chase. Another failure. He had been close several times now, but he couldn’t do it. As he wiped the rain off his glasses, he saw that the whole team, except Oliver, was in the stands now. None had retreated to the locker room to change, but they were all taking shelter.

Flying back over to Oliver, Harry took several deep breaths. “One more.”

Oliver just shook his head. “Harry. If one more Snitch was ever enough, if one more stop was ever enough, neither of us would’ve gone pro.”

“I can do this!” Harry said through gritted teeth, spotting the Snitch in the distance.

Harry exploded after it. Too fast. He reached with his right hand long before he was close enough. The shift in weight nearly rolled him off the broom. His stomach lurched, but he recovered. The Snitch darted downward, and Harry followed it into a near-vertical dive. Every muscle in his body screamed in protest. He still had ground to cover, but before he could close the distance, the Snitch vanished. 

Harry jerked up and out of the dive, hopelessly confused. His eyes landed on Oliver, who had his wand in one hand and the Snitch in the other. He looked sad, and Harry flew over, letting his temper get the better of him.

“Damn it, Oliver! I had it!”

“Maybe. You’ll never know,” Wood said, putting both his wand and the Snitch in his robe pockets. “That dive told me everything I needed to know.”

Furious, Harry wanted to launch into a tirade, but knew there was still a line between player and captain that ought not to be crossed. He bit his tongue, hard, and whirled around, going straight to the ground.

Harry spiked his Quidditch gloves on the pitch, dismounted his broom, threw it over his shoulders, and marched to the locker room, leaving everyone else behind. Trainers and equipment staff quietly stepped out of his path as he stormed forward. The walk to the locker room blurred past. Moments later, Harry was hurling his gear angrily into his locker.

“You weren’t practicing anymore,” a voice said behind him. Harry knew it was Wood, and he had no desire to address the man. “You’re trying to prove last Saturday wasn’t your fault, and you’re right, but you have no need to prove that. Least of all to anyone on that pitch.”

Harry couldn’t answer. He only grew angrier, but he knew Oliver was right. Those words couldn’t reach his mouth, though. Harry slammed his locker shut. Oliver didn't speak. He simply leaned against the next row of lockers. Thirty seconds passed.

“Practice makes you better, Harry. Punishment doesn’t.”

Harry closed his eyes. Somehow, that hurt worse than being yelled at. The rest of the team was beginning to fall in quietly. No one said a word to Harry at first. Then a slow sarcastic clap began in the back of the room.

One.

Two.

Three.

The clapping came from the farthest corner of the room. Harry’s eyes met Pucey’s. The Chaser had a grin on his face. “I like watching you beat yourself up, Potter, but Merlin that was really something.”

Pucey then jerked a finger towards the rain outside. “If you’re insane enough to fly in that, imagine what you’re going to do to Falmouth. Those poor bastards think they are playing a Quidditch match? They have no idea what they are up against!”

Jason spoke up beside Harry, his voice low but still loud enough for everyone to hear. “You are still buying dinner, right?”

The entire team instantly burst out into boisterous laughter, breaking the suffocating quiet. Harry, despite his lingering frustration over the training session, felt the corners of his mouth betray him as he cracked the smallest reluctant smile. Conner walked over and threw his arm heavily around the Seeker, shaking him playfully. “You are going to make it worth getting soaked, right? I think it was worth it if we got dinner!”

“You bleeding vultures, fine!” Harry protested, grumbling good-naturedly as Conner rocked him back and forth. He looked across the damp locker room at his teammates, adding, “Only if Pucey comes, though.”

The man shrugged carelessly, leaning back against the rows of lockers. “I’m in. Not the Cauldron, though,” Pucey replied, trying to maintain his usual detached facade. “I don’t want to see you and your little girlfriend make eyes at each other through dinner, it’ll make me lose my appetite. Which is really saying something right now.”

Pucey looked nervous beneath his bravado as he spoke, his mind clearly drifting to all the letters he had received lately filled with vitriolic hate mail. But Harry still had a small part of him that was spoiling for a fight after that botched afternoon practice. Catching his teammate's gaze, Harry offered him a firm, steady nod—a silent vow and a promise that said he would absolutely have his back out there in the real world.

His thoughts drifted toward Hannah and the Cauldron. He shoved them away before they could settle as he stood up. “I need a shower, and then we can do dinner here in Puddlemere. Go support the locals.”

The Beaters cheered at this, making everyone laugh, but as Harry made his way towards the showers, Wood stepped into his path.

“We good?”

Harry took a deep breath. “I'll be better after we throttle the Falcons.”

“You know we will,” Wood promised, holding out his hand, which Harry clasped in his own, before pushing the man aside.

“Now get out of the way, you tosser, I need that shower.”

Harry walked past the man, but he caught the smile that finally crossed his captain’s face.

Steam quickly swallowed the showers, washing away the lingering chill that had settled into their bones during the endless afternoon in the rain. The locker room gradually filled with the familiar sounds of recovery: lockers creaking open and shut, towels snapping through the humid air, and low murmurs of exhausted conversation replacing the silence that had hung over the room only minutes before.

Harry stood beneath the hot water longer than he normally would have allowed, letting it drum against the back of his neck until the tension slowly began to melt away. His shoulders still ached from fighting the wind, and his hands carried the dull sting that came from gripping a broomstick too tightly for far too long. Oliver's words lingered somewhere in the back of his mind, unwelcome but impossible to ignore.

By the time he emerged, toweling his hair dry, the mood had shifted completely. Jason had somehow convinced Conner that he could still smell the swamp they'd created on the pitch, prompting the Beater to threaten another shower while the rest of the locker room offered increasingly unhelpful opinions. Even Pucey, now dressed in a plain black jumper with his ever-present scowl firmly back in place, muttered something about “children” under his breath.

The group only stopped teasing Conner after he threatened to strip right there in the middle of the locker room before returning to the shower, leading everyone to pack up their things and start heading out of the facility. Harry found himself shaking his head, a genuine smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he slung his bag over his shoulder. Somewhere in the chaos of the season, Harry hoped this was becoming normal: the heated arguments over tactics, the jokes at one another's expense, and team dinners after exhausting practices. He hadn't realized how much he'd truly needed this sense of camaraderie until now.

As they reached the heavy front doors that would take them out to the rain-slicked streets of Puddlemere, Harry saw Rex arriving for the evening shift. The two had not spoken since that emotionally charged night in the stands, and they locked eyes for a moment. A heavy, uncertain moment passed between them, but it lasted for only a fleeting second before Harry broke the silence, offering warmly, “Oi, Rex! We are heading to grab dinner, can I bring you back something? I think we are going to Puddle Pot.”

Rex stopped in his tracks, looking slightly surprised by the easy gesture, but he didn’t hesitate to offer assurances with a small, grateful smile. “I’ll pass, thanks, Harry. If you could grab me a pastry from Padin, though, I’d owe you one.”

“You got it,” Harry said with a cheerful wave. Relief loosened something in Harry's chest. Whatever awkwardness remained after their last conversation, Rex wasn't going to let it stand between them. Harry had no interest in becoming the sort of player who stopped seeing the people who kept the place running. 

Outside, the rain had eased to a steady drizzle, the violent storm finally exhausting itself.

Charlotte groaned. “As if my hair wasn’t frizzy enough.”

Cho, however, walked up to her, looping her arm through Charlotte’s. She then lifted her wand in the air, causing a magical translucent umbrella to appear over their heads. Harry instantly teased the girl, “As one of your former teachers, I am proud to see you use magic for something useful.”

“Shut up, Potter,” Pucey said, shoving the teen lightly, making everyone laugh and offering taunting remarks.

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” Harry said with a chuckle, enjoying the laughs that followed.

The streets of Puddlemere glistened beneath pools of golden lamplight as the team wandered through the village together, brooms slung over shoulders and conversations overlapping into one another. More than one passerby recognized them despite the weather, offering cheerful waves or calling out good luck for Saturday's match. Harry returned each greeting with a smile, and for the first time since the final whistle the previous weekend, the weight pressing against his chest felt just a little lighter.

The walk to the Puddle Pot, a fondue-style restaurant, was short. When they arrived at the restaurant, they were met by a starstruck hostess, who barely greeted Oliver as he approached the stand with a smile. Before Oliver could tell her that they needed a table for eleven, the girl ran off.

The man looked bewildered for a moment. “Real charming way you have with women there, Wood.”

The teasing came from around the group, but before Wood could apologize or even start to move, an older woman emerged from the back.

“Mr. Wood, we are preparing a table for you and your teammates. Please just give us a moment.”

Oliver offered the woman a charming smile. “Not a problem. We hope we aren’t imposing. This was a spur-of-the-moment decision.”

“You are always welcome here, sir,” the woman offered with a slight bow of her head. “Can I get your drinks started at the bar while you wait for your table?”

Immediately, Conner came forward, throwing his arms around Wood and Harry. “I’ll have a Firewhisky and—”

“He will have water,” Wood said firmly. “We all will. We can also wait till we are seated, ma’am, thank you. I know what this lot is like when the drinks start pouring and we have a big game on Saturday after all.”

“Of course,” the woman said. “Give us just a moment and we will get you all taken care of.”

Oliver turned to the team with a grin and shrugged his shoulders. “Next time the first person off the pitch runs and puts our names down for a table.”

This caused some laughs from the group, and before long the woman returned, waving the team to the tables that had been pushed together.

Harry and Pucey followed at the rear of the group as they moved through the restaurant. Whispers and the occasional cheerful greeting followed in their wake, but unlike Diagon Alley, the patrons of Puddlemere seemed content to simply let them enjoy their evening. Harry caught his own name more than once as they passed between the crowded tables, but no one attempted to stop them for photographs or autographs. Whether it was respect for the team or an unspoken understanding among the locals, he wasn't sure, but he appreciated it.

The long half-circle table tucked into the back corner had already been cleared for them. Fresh loaves of steaming bread sat waiting in woven baskets, accompanied by bowls of whipped herb butter that filled the air with the smell of garlic and rosemary.

“Now this,” Jason declared dramatically as he collapsed into a chair, “is the reward for nearly drowning.”

“You nearly drowned?” Charlotte asked, raising an eyebrow. “I distinctly remember you hiding behind Conner every time Robertson launched a Bludger.”

“I was strategically positioned,” Jason replied with complete seriousness. “There's a difference.”

“There isn't,” Cho answered as she slid into the seat beside Charlotte.

“There absolutely is.”

“You also tried to convince me earlier that Beaters were the smartest players on the pitch…you hit things, Conner,” Cho teased.

“Strategic things,” Jason offered. Reaching across the table, he tore an entire loaf of bread in half with his hands and handed one piece to Conner. “Eat before you embarrass us any further.”

“Too late,” Pucey muttered under his breath.

The comment was so dry that it caught everyone off guard before laughter rolled around the table once again.

Harry found himself smiling despite everything.

A week ago, this room would've been divided into veterans and rookies, starters and reserves, cliques that barely tolerated one another. Tonight, they were simply soaked, exhausted Quidditch players complaining about the weather while stealing bread from one another's plates.

He hadn't realized how badly he'd needed that.

A young waitress hurried over with a quill hovering beside her.

“Can I start anyone with soup? The chef insisted after seeing you lot come in looking like you swam here.”

Oliver looked around the table before answering.

“Eleven bowls.”

“Eleven?” the waitress repeated.

“We've just spent our last four hours trying to freeze to death for our Seeker,” Oliver replied jokingly. “Feed them before they complain.”

“I'm already complaining,” Jason said.

“You always are,” Conner answered.

The waitress disappeared toward the kitchens, chuckling to herself.

Harry reached for a piece of bread just as another hand beat him to it.

He looked over.

Pucey had calmly stolen the last roll sitting between them.

“…Really?” Harry asked.

Pucey shrugged.

“Poor awareness.”

Jason pointed accusingly across the table.

“I told you! He keeps stealing people's food!”

“You left it undefended,” Pucey replied without looking up. “That's on you.”

Another round of laughter erupted, loud enough to draw curious glances from a few nearby diners. Even Oliver was laughing now, while Harry leaned back in his chair, watching his teammates bicker over bread rolls with all the intensity they usually reserved for Quidditch strategy. To Harry’s amusement, the bickering continued through the entirety of dinner.

When it was time to go, everything was placed on a single tab again, which was set in front of Harry. Before the teen could pick it up, however, Oliver had it. “You paid last week.”

“I did say dinner was on me.”

Charlotte immediately added, “He also made us fly in a monsoon.”

“I was trying to build character,” Harry offered weakly.

“You were trying to give us all pneumonia,” Charlotte countered with a grin.

Harry chuckled, and Oliver pushed the bill back in front of him. “She’s right. I’ll bring you some Galleons on Saturday, assuming we aren’t all dying by then.”

This made everyone laugh, and Harry settled up with the waitress without any further complaint. As the team was getting up to leave, Oliver gave out instructions about what time to arrive on Saturday morning and offered reminders to take it easy the following day.

Before the team could split up, Oliver lightly nudged Harry with an elbow. “Come on. There's someone I think you ought to meet.”

Harry followed his captain's gaze toward a table tucked against the front windows of the restaurant, where an older wizard sat finishing a glass of red wine with two young women.

Something about the trio seemed vaguely familiar. The older man's silver-threaded hair and tailored robes carried an unmistakable air of old money, while the younger of the two girls—perhaps fifteen or sixteen—was animatedly telling some story that had the older man smiling despite himself. Across from them sat the elder sister, quietly listening with one hand wrapped around the stem of a wine glass. She laughed softly at something her sister said, though the smile never lingered for long, settling back into a composed expression that somehow suited her.

Harry frowned slightly as he followed Oliver across the room. He knew he'd seen them somewhere before. The girls weren't strangers. Hogwarts, maybe? The older one especially tugged at a memory that refused to surface.

Oliver stopped beside the table and offered the older wizard an easy smile that spoke of years of familiarity.

“Lord Greengrass,” he greeted warmly. “It's good to see you again.”

Lord Greengrass looked up from his glass and immediately rose to his feet, offering Oliver a firm handshake. “Captain Wood. I heard your group was working hard today. Congratulations on surviving the weather. My groundskeeper swears he watched half your squad attempting to drown themselves this afternoon.”

Oliver laughed as he accepted the man’s hand. “Only half? I was hoping the rumors would be more dramatic than that.”

Lord Greengrass’s attention shifted toward Harry, amusement flickering across his features. “Mr. Potter, welcome to Puddlemere. I’ve heard you’ve been getting the lay of the land over the last few weeks. Even Padin mentioned you stopped by his shop.”

Confusion must have shown plainly on Harry’s face, because Oliver leaned closer and supplied, “The Greengrass family owns half the establishments in Puddlemere. Their family has been here nearly as long as the stadium.”

“Longer, my boy,” Lord Greengrass corrected with an easy laugh. He gestured toward the two young women seated beside him. “Mr. Potter, I’m certain you crossed paths with both of my daughters at Hogwarts—Daphne and Astoria.”

Recognition came at once, and Harry felt a faint warmth creep into his cheeks when he realized their names had simply escaped him. “Of course. It’s good to see you both.”

“Potter,” Daphne greeted casually, her expression composed despite the faint amusement in her pale blue eyes. “You must have been the reason the team stayed in the air for so long. I seem to remember Captain Wood being slightly more reasonable in that kind of weather.”

Oliver chuckled, clearly enjoying the accusation, while Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “I might have had something to do with it.”

“Might?” Astoria repeated brightly. “Father said you had the entire team flying through a monsoon.”

“News travels quickly around here,” Harry muttered.

“Especially when eleven professional Quidditch players are visible from half the village,” Daphne replied.

Lord Greengrass reclaimed his seat, though his attention remained fixed on Harry. “Anxious to get back out there and redeem last week’s loss, I’m certain.”

Harry’s smile faded slightly, though he nodded. “Something like that.”

Daphne studied him for a moment, the teasing edge leaving her voice. “For whatever it’s worth, I’m sure you outworked every other team in the league today.”

Harry met her gaze, mildly surprised by the sincerity behind the compliment. “Hopefully that means something on Saturday.”

“It usually does,” Daphne said, lifting her glass toward him in a small salute.

Oliver smiled. “Will you all be at the match on Saturday?”

“I don't miss home matches, son,” Lord Greengrass answered without hesitation. “Puddlemere weekends are the best part of the year.”

“I'll be wearing my Oliver Wood jersey,” Astoria announced proudly.

Oliver laughed. “You know, when I signed that jersey for you, I imagined it hanging in a display case.”

“After you retire, maybe,” Astoria replied with a grin.

Rolling her eyes affectionately, Daphne shook her head. “She hardly ever takes it off. I imagine you'll have to sign her another before long.”

“I'd be honored,” Oliver said.

Daphne's attention shifted toward Harry. “As for you, Potter... I suppose I'll eventually need one of yours as well. We were in the same year after all. It seems like a matter of Hogwarts pride.”

Harry smiled, a little more comfortably this time. “I'd be happy to sign one.”

“Careful,” Oliver said dryly. “That's how it starts.”

Harry frowned. “What starts?”

“Next thing you know you're signing broomsticks, babies, garden gnomes...”

Lord Greengrass laughed heartily while Astoria covered her mouth trying not to.

“I don't think I'd ask him to sign a garden gnome,” Daphne replied, though the corner of her mouth betrayed a smile.

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t,” Harry offered in jest.

This caused the whole group to laugh, while Lord Greengrass glanced toward the old brass clock hanging above the restaurant entrance and sighed. “I suppose we'd better be going.”

Astoria immediately stood. “I've got class tomorrow anyway.”

Lord Greengrass nodded before looking toward his eldest daughter. “Daphne?”

“I was actually going to stop by Padin's before heading home.”

Her father raised an eyebrow. “At this hour?”

“He will still be open another fifteen minutes.”

Lord Greengrass looked unconvinced for only a moment before shrugging. “If you're sure.”

“I'll only be a few minutes,” Daphne promised.

The older wizard gathered his cloak before turning back toward Oliver. “Captain, best of luck Saturday. And to you, Mr. Potter.”

Harry nodded politely. “Thank you, sir.”

The Greengrasses exchanged their farewells before Lord Greengrass and Astoria made their way toward the door. Daphne lingered only long enough to slip into her own coat, while Harry watched absentmindedly, then suddenly remembered, “Merlin.”

Oliver looked over. “What?”

“Rex.”

“The pastry?”

Harry slapped a palm against his forehead. “I promised him I'd bring one back.”

Oliver laughed. “Go on then. I'll see you Saturday. Get some rest.”

Harry pulled the man into a brief embrace before stepping back. “And—about earlier—I really am—”

“I'll thump you if you apologize,” Wood interrupted, dismissing the thought with a wave of his hand. “You flew well today. Just remember...” He paused for a moment, his expression softening. “We're supposed to love this game too.”

Harry lingered on the words longer than he expected. Finally, he nodded.

“I'll see you Saturday, Cap.”

“You'd better.”

The two parted ways outside the restaurant. Harry watched Oliver disappear toward the town square before turning in the opposite direction toward Padin's Bakery.

A short distance ahead, beneath the warm glow of the enchanted streetlamps, he spotted Daphne walking at an unhurried pace beneath a translucent enchanted umbrella. She was only a few dozen yards ahead of him.

“Daphne!” Harry called.

She glanced over her shoulder, slowing enough for him to catch up.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked with an easy smile. “I promised Rex—our security guard—that I'd bring him back something from Padin's.”

She shifted the umbrella slightly, silently making room beneath it as he stepped alongside her.

“You offered to buy your security guard a pastry?”

Harry shrugged. “He's a good bloke. He was the first person to welcome me when I arrived at Puddlemere. Helped show me around the facility. Figured it's the least I could do.”

Daphne studied him for a moment before looking back down the quiet street. “I don't think most professional athletes would've remembered.”

Harry laughed. “I nearly didn't. Oliver reminded me without realizing it.”

That earned the smallest smile from her. “I suppose that's even better.”

“What is?”

“You didn't do it because someone was watching.”

Rain tapped softly against the enchanted umbrella as they continued walking. Harry glanced sideways. “So your father wasn't exaggerating? Your family really lives and breathes Puddlemere Quidditch?”

“Oh, unquestionably,” Daphne answered, her smile growing warmer. “Hogwarts Quidditch was always okay, but professional Quidditch...” She looked toward the distant stadium rising above the rooftops. “That's part of growing up here. Match days are practically holidays in our family.”

“And you?”

“What about me?”

“Do you love the game as much as your father?”

She laughed softly.

“I probably complain about it more than he does... but yes. It's in my blood.”

They reached Padin's only moments later. Harry stepped ahead to pull the door open, allowing Daphne to enter first. “Ladies first.”

“Trying to improve your reputation already, Potter?” she teased as she stepped inside.

“I didn't realize it needed improving.”

“It probably doesn't.”

The bell above the door chimed as they entered the warm little bakery, and before long the two emerged again carrying small paper bags.

“Well…” A tiny smile passed over her lips. “You will have to walk right by my street to get back to the stadium. Seems silly to walk separately.”

“Lead the way,” Harry said with a grin, offering his arm in a joking gesture. She took it easily enough, and the two continued through the quiet streets. He’d offered more out of habit than expectation, looking momentarily surprised when Daphne slipped her hand through his arm as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Conversation came easily as the drizzle softened into little more than mist. Daphne told him more about the Greengrasses and their long history in Puddlemere. Astoria still had another year at Hogwarts, though apparently she came home whenever she could. Daphne didn't elaborate on why, and Harry didn't press her. She also mentioned that she'd begun helping her father manage several of the family's businesses around the village.

Eventually they reached a neat row of stone cottages tucked away beneath the shadow of the stadium lights.

“This is me,” Daphne said, slowing to a stop before a wrought-iron gate entwined with flowering ivy.

Harry looked up at the charming little home before smiling. “I suppose I'll see you Saturday then.”

“I'll be there,” Daphne promised. “Hopefully this week's weather is a little kinder to you.”

Harry chuckled. “I'd rather it not be. I spent all afternoon preparing for it.”

That drew a genuine laugh from her. “I'll be cheering for rain then.”

She pushed open the gate before pausing to glance back over her shoulder. “And Potter?”

“Yeah?”

“…Try not to make the entire team fly through another monsoon before every match.”

“I'll make no promises.”

Shaking her head with another quiet laugh, Daphne disappeared inside, leaving Harry standing alone on the pavement. For a moment he simply watched the warm light spilling through the front window before turning back toward the village center, Rex's pastry still tucked safely beneath his arm.

The streets of Puddlemere were quiet now. Shopkeepers were pulling shutters closed for the night, enchanted lanterns flickered gently above the cobblestones, and somewhere in the distance Harry could still see the silhouette of the stadium rising over the rooftops.

Just a few weeks ago, this village had been nothing more than the place where he played Quidditch. Now it was beginning to feel like home. Harry smiled to himself and started back toward the stadium to deliver Rex’s pastry before calling it a night.