A Star Is Born Chapter 23 (Patreon)

Chapter 23

“They all have their strengths and weaknesses, mate. Don’t underestimate them,” Ron said as the two watched a replay through a Pensieve memory of the Falcons playing. “They are getting older, and I respect the hell out of them. The team has more tenured veterans than any other in the league right now. They went on a hell of a run when we were younger. Only team to win three titles in a row in league history. The problem is, they can’t keep up with the young crowd anymore, and the ownership wants to let all the vets retire on their own terms. Don’t let their age fool you, though. This team has the hearts and souls of winners.”

Harry absorbed his best mate's words as he watched the team flying in the memory. From a technical standpoint, they were great, but Ron’s words rang true. They flew a half-step behind, or reacted a quarter second too slowly on Beater shots.  That being said, any mistake that was made by the opposing squad, Caerphilly in this case, was capitalized on. Each mistake led to a goal, and in this case, the Falcons’ Seeker, Blaze De Larrea, caught the Snitch.

Ron pointed at the man in the distance of the memory. “De Larrea is one of the greatest of all time. He is just old. In his prime, he would’ve made MaCloud look like an amateur. He played for the Spanish national team. He even played in the World Cup in 1990, the tournament before Krum did.”

Harry watched as the man took another victory lap, looking happier than any Seeker Harry had ever seen. Perhaps the smile was for the win, but Harry suspected that an athlete as old as De Larrea was just enjoying the final wins of his career.

As Harry and Ron exited the Pensieve, the young man thought about what Wood had said the night before. We’re supposed to love this game too. Oliver had been right. The game deserved to be loved.

The thought of loving the game reminded Harry of Rex’s smiling face from the night before. The man had been slightly bewildered, and extremely grateful, that Harry really had thought to bring him back a pastry. Harry hadn’t mentioned he had nearly forgotten to buy it, but promised that he would bring him more in the future.

The teen had taken a mid-afternoon stroll through Puddlemere. The excitement for the game was palpable everywhere he went. Posters of the team were on every lamp post, and despite the loss from the previous week, the fans were singing their praises.

Today there had been no drills, no brooms, and no extra laps. Instead, he had woken up slightly before dawn as usual and gone for a morning run before returning letters to some of his friends. He hoped to fill a bit of his off time next week, because Puddlemere would have their only bye week of the season, which meant two weeks would pass before they took the air against the Arrows.

Ron and Harry continued to discuss the past accomplishments of the Falcons when they entered the kitchen to find Hermione looking pleased with herself. The food smelled quite good this week, and Harry offered his compliments: “You need any help, Hermione? It smells fantastic.”

“One of Molly’s recipes,” Hermione said, glancing at the book she had on the counter. “Directions from a book I can follow.”

“Mum brought it over this week,” Ron explained. “She has missed having you at dinner on Sundays, mate. When she heard Hermione was cooking for you before the games, she nearly insisted on coming over herself to cook for us.”

A small feeling of guilt came over him at Ron’s words. Since draft day, Harry really had not been around the Burrow very often. Considering the Weasleys had been to three of his four games, that felt like a pretty poor way to repay them.

“I will definitely make an appearance. If not this week, then next for sure,” Harry promised.

Hermione offered him a harrumph, but then said, “Well, maybe you could bring Hannah. I’m sure she would love Mrs. Weasley’s cooking.”

Harry swallowed hard. It was a lot easier to avoid thinking about the blonde he had been spending time with. Inevitably it just hurt to think about the witch he had left in the Leaky Cauldron earlier that week.

“I know that look,” Ron said softly.

Hermione, who had been grabbing dishes, looked over to Harry sharply. “Oh no, Harry, what happened?”

“I really don’t want to talk about it,” Harry said a little more waspishly than he meant. Ron and Hermione exchanged looks, and he sighed. “Look, I’ve just got a lot on my plate with the team right now, and the other day these reporters mobbed the Cauldron for hours. She doesn’t need that in her life.”

Ron shook his head, looking to Hermione for answers, while the witch was just biting her lip carefully, wondering how far she could push her luck with his clearly volatile attitude over the matter. “Well, that’s too bad. Hannah’s a good witch.”

“The best,” Harry said softly, clearly indicating that he would like to drop the topic, after assuring them the issues were not with Hannah specifically.

In a very un-Hermione-like fashion, she then asked, “Are you ready for the game tomorrow? Feeling excited to get the win back?”

Ron’s jaw dropped slightly, and Harry blinked at the girl a few times, before glancing at Ron. “Does she have galleons on me?”

“Harry Potter!” Hermione said, hitting him with a dish rag as she grabbed the plates and offered them to her friend after setting the dishes on the table. “I am trying to be supportive. Sue me.”

“You’re right, sorry, Mione,” Harry said with a laugh, while Ron just chuckled. “I do feel ready. Our little study sessions the night before really help. The ones they give us at practice are a little dry. Some of the coaches seem hesitant to give their kudos to certain players. Ron tells me how it is.”

“Happy to help,” Ron said dutifully.

“Besides, it’s nice to see you guys at least once a week,” Harry promised, and his two oldest friends just offered him nods and warm smiles, before he changed the topic. “Ron, how's business? Any luck with other players?”

“I’m mostly scouting right now,” Ron said as he began shoveling food onto his plate. “I’ve been writing with McGonagall, and I am actually going to Gryffindor’s match next week. You should come if you have the time. It would be great for morale, and—”

“Would help your image,” Harry said, grinning.

Hermione turned to Ron, prepared to berate him, and Harry stopped her. “Kidding! Merlin, Hermione, I had been writing with Demelza anyways. I promised I’d come visit. This gives me a good excuse to do so.” Harry turned back to Ron. “Who else looks good? You might really have your hands full when the next combine comes around.”

“That’s the goal,” Ron said simply.

“He may not work a lot of hours at the shop,” Hermione said, digging into her soup with a spoon, “but he really has put a lot of hours into scouting and the game. He is going to be a great scout, and will get lots of players to sign on with him as an agent. I have no doubt.”

Ron beamed at the praise and then began delving into some players he had been watching. Ron continued talking long after dinner had finished, enthusiastically listing off seventh-years, sixth-years, and even a promising Hufflepuff Beater that Harry vaguely remembered from his own school days. Hermione rolled her eyes every few minutes, though Harry noticed she never actually told him to stop.

By the time the plates had been cleared away and the three found themselves lingering around mugs of tea, Harry realized nearly three hours had passed without him thinking about his loss from the week before even once.

That alone felt like progress.

Eventually Hermione shooed the pair from the kitchen with strict instructions that professional athletes required sleep more than second helpings, and Harry found himself laughing as Ron protested all the way to the front door before wishing his best friend a good night.

Tomorrow, there would be eighty thousand people waiting for him. Tonight... he was just Harry.

.o.

Match day mornings always felt strangely quiet. Harry had decided to Apparate to a point outside the stadium so he could walk the streets before the game.

The roads around Puddlemere Stadium were already beginning to fill by the time Harry arrived and began his walk to the locker room. Supporters dressed head to toe in blue and silver were weaving between vendors selling scarves, enchanted flags, and butterbeer. Children chased one another through the crowds carrying toy broomsticks while older supporters argued loudly over predicted scores as though the match had already begun.

Harry lowered his hood a little farther over his face. It didn't work.

"Potter!"

He looked up just in time to see a little girl no older than eight waving enthusiastically from her father's shoulders. He waved back. Her smile somehow made his own appear without thinking. The phantom weight of Harry’s gear felt lighter that morning as he walked among the fans. He had been carrying it all week, but today, as he watched the fans arriving at the Puddlemere Stadium, he felt ready.

The storm clouds that had threatened the countryside for most of the week had broken sometime during the night, leaving behind cool air, damp grass, and a sky painted a brilliant shade of blue. It was almost disappointing. The team had spent nearly four hours trying to prepare for a match that would consist of monsoon-like weather, and it was starting to feel like it had been for nothing.

Arriving at the stadium, Harry went in through the staff entrance, allowing him to see Rex chatting with another guard. This time, however, the man wasn’t in his security attire, but in a Harry Potter Puddlemere jersey, the number seven emblazoned on it. The man lit up at the sight of Harry, but didn’t rush to approach him. Instead he reached behind the desk, and held up a bag that clearly still had a few pastries left in it. “Worth every bite, Harry, thanks!”

Harry just waved at the man and made his way into the locker room. Harry tossed his stuff in his locker, and took a hard seat next to Conner, feeling the anticipation of the coming match.

“Bit unfair, isn’t it?” Conner muttered from the bench beside him. The Beater was lacing up his gloves before shaking his head. “You convinced the whole team to train in the worst weather I’ve ever played in, and now it’s beautiful.”

Harry chuckled as he reached for his own gear inside the locker behind him. “There’s still time, and a whole season that might bring us one game of bad weather. You should be thanking me; I did buy you dinner.”

Jason snorted. “If it does rain, I will blame you, and you will owe us a second dinner this week.”

A chorus of agreement rippled around the room as the team continued to get dressed. Even Pucey, who was looking a little nervous to get back in the air so soon after his injury, grumbled, “I’ll thump the lot of you if we have to fly in anything but perfect weather today.”

That earned another round of laughter. Harry caught Oliver’s eye across the room as the man was the first to get fully dressed. The captain didn’t say anything, but he did offer Harry a slight nod. The young star returned it, and nothing else needed to be said.

Harry wanted his redemption today. He wanted to catch the Snitch. He wanted to beat the Falcons so badly that nobody remembered Montrose by Monday morning, at least not in Puddlemere.

After a long week, he was no longer running from the last match; he was running towards the next. Despite the abysmal sleep he had gotten the night before, there were now 80,000 reasons for walking into the stadium telling him he was going to win the day.

When the team finished dressing, Coach Deverell entered the room. Any remaining chatter ceased immediately, and the man looked as stern as he did the week before in hostile territory. “It’s good to be home.”

His voice carried effortlessly through the room. “Whatever happened last week is behind us. What’s in front of us out there is our destiny, our legacy.”

No one cheered, but Oliver stomped his foot in agreement as Coach Deverell continued, “The whole Falcons organization is big on legacy, but they’ve had their time, and they have earned our respect…but today they are standing in our house.”

Oliver stomped again, this time picked up by Conner and Jason.

“Today they fly in our skies. So let’s remind them who lives here.”

This time the whole team stomped their boots as Wood stood and moved to the middle of the group. “Bring it in, everyone. Puddlemere on three…one…two…three…Puddlemere!”

Conner and Jason clapped their hands aggressively; the rest of them just seemed to stand up straight, and looked incredibly focused on what would follow. No one cheered. No one shouted. They simply grabbed their brooms and began moving towards the tunnel.

The tunnel rumbled beneath their boots when they entered. With every step the voice of the announcer grew louder, and their arrival brought the cheering of the Puddlemere faithful. Tens of thousands of voices sounded like one.

As they reached the end, they stopped. A long, silent moment passed as the announcer cleared his voice, and then began calling the lineup. One by one his teammates flew out of the tunnel. Harry and Oliver were the last two, and today, normality returned, meaning the captain would be called out last. Right before Harry’s name was called, Oliver offered his fist, and Harry hit it with his own, before the announcer's magically amplified voice echoed through the stadium.

“Starting at Seeker…number seven…PUDDLEMERE’S CHOSEN ONE…HARRY POTTER!”

The roar that followed nearly shook the concrete beneath Harry’s feet. For one brief moment, he stood at the mouth of the tunnel and allowed the support of eighty thousand people to wash over him. Then Harry surged forward, mounted his broom in one fluid motion, and launched himself into the open sky.

He began his customary lap around the pitch as Oliver’s introduction echoed behind him. Harry descended close enough to exchange several quick high-fives with supporters leaning over the railing before rising again. When he passed the family section, he offered a two-fingered salute toward Ron, Hermione, the Weasleys, and several other friends scattered among the seats.

A collection of private boxes sat beside the family section, and as Harry climbed above the stands, he spotted the Greengrasses. Astoria was already waving both arms enthusiastically, drawing a laugh from Harry as he returned the gesture. As promised, she wore Oliver’s number five proudly across the front of her blue robes. Beside her, Lord Greengrass offered Harry a dignified wave.

Daphne, however, stole his attention. She wore a new Puddlemere jersey, number seven displayed proudly across the front. Daphne didn’t wave wildly like her sister. She merely leaned against the railing and smiled as Harry flew past.

Harry found himself smiling back. For a fraction of a second, the stadium noise seemed to fade around them. Then the referee’s whistle pierced the air, bringing the teams together for a quick reminder of the rules of the day's match.

As Harry moved into position, Blaze De Larrea drifted alongside him. Up close, the veteran looked even older than he had inside Ron’s Pensieve, with deep lines around his eyes and silver cutting through his dark beard.

“Potter,” De Larrea greeted.

“De Larrea,” Harry returned respectfully.

The older man glanced toward the roaring stands and smiled as though he were hearing the noise for the first time. “Beautiful place to play. A beautiful place to win.”

Harry heard the challenge in his voice, grinned, and followed his gaze. Blue-and-silver banners rolled across the stadium, his teammates hovered eagerly around him, and somewhere among supporters, Daphne Greengrass and thousands of others were wearing his number.

“Yeah,” Harry admitted with a hint of steel in his voice. “It is.”

De Larrea’s smile widened, clearly enjoying the thrill of competition while it lasted. “Enjoy it while you’re young.”

Before Harry could respond, the referee released the Snitch. Both Seekers instinctively tracked the tiny golden blur until it vanished into the brilliant afternoon sky. The Quaffle followed a heartbeat later. Every pleasantry ended there.

Ron had been right. The Falcons were older, but they weren't slow. Watching them through a Pensieve and facing them across a Quidditch pitch were entirely different experiences. Their reactions remained razor sharp, their passing crisp, and every movement carried the confidence of players who had spent years flying beside one another. Perhaps they had lost half a step to time, but they wasted none of it.

Harry smiled. Good. That was exactly what he'd hoped for. Rather than immediately chasing the Snitch, Harry slipped into the role he'd promised Oliver earlier that week. He became a constant presence over the pitch, refusing to let the Falcons settle into any rhythm.

Already Pucey had marched the Quaffle downfield, feeding Dubois for the opening goal of the afternoon. Before Falmouth could even restart, Harry was there. He swooped across the midfield lane, forcing the inbound pass higher than intended. The Quaffle glanced off the end of his broomstick and floated directly into Pucey's waiting hands.

The star Chaser didn’t even hesitate. One quick pump fake. One hard throw. The Keeper barely moved.

Twenty-zero.

The crowd erupted. Harry was already gone. A Bludger screamed toward him, but he ducked beneath it without breaking stride before climbing sharply back into open air. De Larrea drifted alongside him for a moment, perhaps intending another quiet remark between Seekers, but Harry never gave him the chance.

Instead, he folded into a steep dive. Not toward the Snitch. Toward the Falcons' Beater. Harry flashed directly across the man's field of vision just before his bat struck the Bludger. Startled, the veteran mistimed the swing, sending the iron ball sailing harmlessly over Chandler's shoulder instead of into it.

Chandler needed no second invitation. He burst through the opening and buried another Quaffle cleanly through the center hoop.

"THIRTY-ZERO PUDDLEMERE!" the announcer bellowed. "Potter is everywhere this afternoon! The young Seeker isn't chasing the Snitch—he's dismantling Falmouth one play at a time!"

Harry wheeled back toward midfield. Halfway there, he spotted another Beater lining up his shot against Charlotte. He never even looked for the Snitch. Harry intercepted the Bludger's path, redirecting it with a precise tap of his broom handle. The altered angle sent the iron ball crashing into a Falcons Chaser instead, knocking the man into his own teammate.

A sharp whistle echoed across the stadium. Foul.

The Chaser rounded on Harry immediately, face burning with frustration. Harry answered with nothing more than an exaggerated yawn. The Puddlemere supporters howled with laughter.

"Catch the Snitch, Potter!" someone shouted from the lower stands.

Harry only grinned. He wasn’t worried, because he knew exactly what came next.

Wood smothered the ensuing penalty attempt with the fingertips of his right glove, knocking the Quaffle into open space. Chandler collected the rebound before his broom had even leveled out.

One pass to Dubois. One more to Pucey. Goal.

Forty-zero.

The Falcons had barely touched the Quaffle, and they looked furious. Reaching De Larrea now in the sky, Harry offered a nod. “Sorry, busy.”

The man shook his head. “You’re not quite what the scouting report suggested.”

It was a dry comment, but Harry only shrugged before throwing himself back into the mix, this time with De Larrea hot on his heels. The two disrupted plays across the pitch, each reacting to the other's movements.  At first Harry’s continued dominance held, but after another two goals, a timeout was called. On the other side of this timeout, the Falcons finally adjusted.

Back-to-back goals made it sixty to twenty, but Harry continued to tear through the endurance of the Falcons, wearing them down with every scramble of a play he could make. All the while, Harry constantly surveyed the pitch for the Snitch.

An hour passed, and despite the talent of the Falcons, the Puddlemere team was just having a day. The Falcons looked exhausted, and the speed of play had hardly slowed at all. Oliver had only allowed three goals in the first hour, while Puddlemere had earned eleven.

Harry heaved for breath as he flew through the outside lane, passing so closely between two Falcons Chasers that their pass was dropped, and Charlotte was there to capitalize on the

turnover. By the time the goal was scored, Harry was back well above the pitch, clapping politely at his teammate’s goal, and then zooming off towards the opposite side of the pitch. De Larrea was no longer tailing him, which turned out to be a mistake, because as Harry crossed to the other side, the Snitch appeared.

In a controlled vertical zoom, Harry chased after it, and despite thinking De Larrea was too far, by the time Harry began closing on the golden ball, the man was right behind him. The veteran had anticipated the Snitch's break toward the sun, using the glare to mask his approach until he was practically overlapping Harry's tail-twig. The wind screamed past Harry's ears, a rhythmic thrumming that matched the frantic beating of the Snitch's wings just inches from his outstretched fingers.

The pursuit turned into a brutal dance of strength and endurance. De Larrea leaned into Harry, a shoulder-to-shoulder grind that forced Harry toward the stadium wall. It was a legal, if aggressive, maneuver from a man who knew his only chance was to physically disrupt the younger Seeker's path. Harry gritted his teeth, the smell of broom polish and damp grass filling his senses as he leaned back, refusing to give an inch. The Snitch dived sharply, a zigzagging blur that plummeted toward the pitch floor, and both Seekers followed in a near-vertical drop that drew a collective gasp from eighty thousand throats.

As the ground rushed up to meet them, Harry saw his opening. His hand shot forward, eyes locked on the golden glint. Time seemed to liquefy. He had been here last week, and somehow not caught the Snitch. The situation was too similar to ignore.

He shifted his weight forward, almost standing on his stirrups, and executed a sudden, violent roll. The maneuver sent him underneath De Larrea's broom, clipping the man’s broom enough to send him spiraling out of control.

No whistle. No foul. Harry reached out, and he felt the cool metal brush his palm, then the frantic vibration against his skin. His fingers snapped shut, and he pulled his broom out of the dive so sharply the tail-twigs scraped the grass. As he ascended back into the blue, his hand held high, the silence of the stadium broke into a deafening, earth-shaking roar. He had done it.

The stadium exploded. The sound didn't come all at once. It rolled across the stands like thunder. Harry barely had time to lift the Snitch before Jason slammed into him from the side, nearly knocking him clean off his broom.

"THAT'S MY SEEKER!"

Conner hit him next. Then Charlotte. Garrett. Even Pucey flew over with the smallest grin Harry had ever seen on the man's face.

"Couldn’t have done it a little faster?"

Harry laughed. Actually laughed. The kind that left your ribs hurting. Oliver arrived last. He didn't say anything. He simply reached over and threw an arm around Harry. That was enough.

As the teams came to shake hands, De Larrea walked over before reporters could surround either of them. He held out his hand. Harry took it.

"That was an ugly move at the end. I didn’t expect it. Congratulations," the man said, not looking angry in the slightest.

"Thank you."

The veteran looked toward the roaring supporters. "You reminded me of something today."

Harry blinked. "I did?"

"Yes." A smile. "You reminded me why I kept playing. Twenty seasons and every now and then…a new surprise. Good luck, Potter."

Harry didn’t register the booming voice of the announcer; he just lived the moment with his teammates, and took a deep breath, finally leaving the previous week's loss completely behind him.

There were a few easy questions posed by the media, but nothing Harry wasn’t ready for. He had been asked what was different between the team's performance this week and the last, but he kept the answer black and white. He didn’t say the team was closer now than they had ever been because some misguided fools the week before had brought them together. Instead, he just offered sage words: “Nothing was different. We went out there, played our game, and remembered to enjoy it. Playing among the Puddlemere fans is the most fun we have playing this game.”

This led to cheers from some of the fans gathered, but Harry didn’t linger for too many questions. He did linger for a long time in the fans’ waiting area, signing more jerseys, photos, and other memorabilia than he could remember. Kids, parents, the young, and the old all wanted an autograph, and this time he signed them all the same way: “Puddlemere’s Seeker, HP7.”

When he waded his way through the fans, he ended up in front of one familiar young lady who was grinning at him. “I told you.”

“Told me what?” Harry asked.

“You outworked everyone; it paid off. I wasn’t wrong,” Daphne said confidently.

“No,” Harry said with a laugh. “You weren’t.”

Noticing she was standing there alone, he grinned. “Can I sign the jersey?”

“I didn’t just stand here by myself for fun,” Daphne teased, before turning around, allowing Harry to sign by his name on the back of her robes.

When he finished, he glanced around, "Where are Astoria and Lord Greengrass?”

“Still hanging out in the box with Daniel Deverell. They would talk Quidditch all day, and I wanted my autograph,” Daphne said with a laugh before turning her head to glance at his signature. “I like it.”

“The autograph?” Harry asked, confused.

“The first part,” Daphne said softly. “You stopped signing as Harry Potter.”

Harry blinked before looking down at the fresh ink still drying across the back of her Puddlemere robes. “I suppose I have.”

Harry looked at the signature for another moment. He wasn’t sure when he started doing that, but he liked it.

Daphne smiled at him, before Harry slipped his quill into his back pocket. “Well, I was thinking…after all that excitement…I owe someone dinner.”

“Someone?” Daphne asked, tilting her head.

“I’ve got a few candidates,” Harry teased.

The girl laughed, shaking her head. “How fortunate.”

“My lead option happens to be standing in front of me.”

Daphne pretended to consider the offer far longer than was necessary. “I was hoping you’d ask.”